Steel Feather
by Jaslyn
Summary: "You don't know how much I care about you, because you were too damned busy feeling the same way." A series of loosely connected one-shots detailing the emotions surrounding Clove as she becomes the most unlikely savior of Panem. Clato, THG AU. Credits to Estoma for beta-ing.
1. Infatuation

**A/N: This has been sitting around on my computer too long, and I'll probably publish every Saturday or so. Credits to the lovely Estoma who has been my beta throughout this entire process - she has contributed much more than I could've ever hoped or wished for, and I am filled with gratitude towards her immense wisdom in writing, without which this could not have been possible.**

* * *

_Older men declare war, but it is youth that must fight and die - _Herbert Hoover

* * *

_11._

_Twang_-

The steel wire snaps through the branches, destroying my poorly-built snare and all hopes of getting a passing grade in field-craft. I slouch on a boulder and stare at my latest failure, wondering if I should've disregarded my parents' advice and gone to a District school like all the other kids.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Enobaria yells, stomping through the leaves in my direction, "Could you get someone to help you instead of fucking it up over and over again?"

I leap to my feet and stand to attention before her. My gaze turns to the other fifth graders happily paired up for field-craft exercises, and I sigh.

"I'm...s-sorry ma'am," I stammer, staring at the leaves and hoping she won't hit me, "my field partner's in the Infirmary with a broken-"

"God-fucking dammit!" she curses, shoving her clipboard at my chest and marching off into the other section of the woods. As her lean, muscular frame disappears between the trees, I hear her calling out Brutus' name.

_Oh god, I hope she doesn't get Brutus to teach me field craft, _I think, recalling how long the last kid under Brutus' personal instruction spent in the Infirmary.

My eyes wander up and down Enobaria's clipboard, looking for my name. To my surprise – the scores I've achieved so far are nothing short of stellar, marred by ugly red ink next to the field-craft and interviewing exercises. I sigh and sit on the ground again, trying my best to untangle the mess I've created. A knot begins to form in my throat as I realise even this too is useless. I set my ruined trap upon the leaves and press my face hard into my hand, trying to stop the tears; since crying would undoubtedly get me a beating. There probably wouldn't be any food for me either – unless I can miraculously pull myself together and pass field-craft.

I utter a muffled gasp as heavy footsteps start clomping in my direction; Brutus' no doubt. There's the noise of some scuffling and the sound of a thump as someone's pushed to the ground before me.

"Help her," Brutus grunts, "don't come back until you're done or I'll smash your face in."

My eyes open to the sight of a pair of bruised hands taking my ruined snare and picking apart the stuck bits of wire and twigs. I stare into my babysitter's face, taking in his boyish features and short-cropped blond hair.

_Pretty face, _I think, _I doubt he has the strength to –_

_Crack_.

The boy snaps a thick branch in the palm of his hand. He looks at me and his lips curl into a smirk, half-expecting me to gush over how strong he is. I force a frown at him and his smile intensifies to the point where his blue eyes come alight with life. However, before I can get a better view of them, he looks down at the now-untangled snare and resumes fixing it. The knot in my throat disappears, and I find myself thinking of something to say that'll make him look at me; just so I can catch another glimpse of his eyes.

"You won't have to do this anymore in seventh grade," he mutters without looking up, "we only train with weapons and how to _kill_."

"You're in seventh grade?" I ask, unbelieving that his voice could've broken at such a young age. I would've guessed eighth or ninth because of his height, and with his broad shoulders, he possesses the imposing presence of a Reaping Candidate.

He nods slowly and flashes me a look with his eyes - not enough to make my heart flutter, but just enough to make me _want_ _more_. There's a half-healed bruise on his cheek and scars on his hands – undoubtedly from hours of sparring in the fight pit.

"You any good with weapons?" he asks, "Since you obviously suck at this."

"Knives," I reply, recalling how well I managed to hit the targets with those rubber blades they let us play with.

"I would've thought archery," he mocks, "you don't look like someone brave enough to get up close."

"Shut up," I hiss, chucking a fistful of leaves at him, "I'll take you on any day."

"I'd love to see you try," he sneers.

_Twang_ – the rebuilt snare implodes in his hands, sending branches flying everywhere.

"Well aren't you useless at this too?" I scowl, silently glad he's staying to show me one more time.

To my surprise, the snare's failure doesn't frustrate him; he simply picks out the broken branches and tries again without even breaking his smile.

"Haven't done animal traps for a long time," he chuckles, and for some reason, I do too.

He looks up and catches me smiling at him. By this time, I haven't got half a heart to look away.

"You're a completely different girl when you smile," he chirps, and it takes all the strength in my face to force my lips back into a scowl.

But deep down in my heart, the angst over my field-craft scores is gone, replaced by a deep-seated fascination over _this boy, _and those mysterious blue eyes he possesses.

* * *

_13._

_Crack_.

Another knife joins the dozen others I've nailed into the target's centre. In the corner of my eye, I can see Enobaria talking to Brutus with a clipboard over her mouth. My lips curl into a smile and I walk back to the twenty yard line, hurling another knife at the board.

_Crack. _

"Clove, for fuck's sake, tidy up the goddamned target!" Enobaria yells from the stands, "You're going to wreck the handles at the rate you're going!"

I smile at her, knowing she's impressed at my skill. While other seventh graders are still fumbling around with the mechanics of a knife's tumble and failing hard – I'm destroying target after target. It won't be long now before I progress onto qualifications and secure my progression into the reaping stream well ahead of time. I retrieve my knives and stroll back to the thirty-yard line, aware that some of the older kids have gathered in the stands to watch me.

"You weren't kidding," a voice chimes behind me.

I stumble backwards in shock, stepping on his foot and clutching at his shirt for balance. _It's him; _the boy I met in the woods. He's taller now, and more muscular. I've seen him with his grade, but never had the chance to be _this close_ to him; so close I can smell the scent of leather and metal on his skin. His blue eyes haven't lost a fraction of the spark I saw two years ago, and right now they stare back me, waiting for a reply.

"What're are you doing here?" I scowl, shoving him away, "The range is booked for seventh graders."

"Looks like it's just you today," he says, gesturing at the empty throwing lanes where my classmates have left for a break, "and me."

"Go away," I scowl, glaring at the target in front. Immediately, I regret my words, and I look over my shoulder to see if he's gone.

He hasn't left, but has taken three steps behind me, presumably to give me space to concentrate. But it's impossible with those blue eyes seared into my mind and the magnetism of his presence bearing down on my head.

I ignore the trickle of sweat running down my forehead and throw a knife at the target, striking dead centre.

"Not bad," he says, picking up one of my knives, "let's see if I can do better."

He leans back and I know right away the knife will be off-centre; he hits the bottom corner of the target.

"Holy shit," I smirk, "you suck at this."

"Well, let's see you try again then," he comments, moving right up behind me. My heart begins to pound as his breath glances across my ears and settles upon my collarbone. I can barely feel the knife between my quivering fingers.

_I'm going to miss! I'm going to miss and he's going to mock me with that snide, sarcastic chuckle of his. _

I give the knife a half-hearted hurl and to my horror, it lands next to his attempt on the bottom corner.

"Wow, someone likes me!" he chuckles. Blood rushes to my face and the rest of my knives clatter to the floor as I stomp off.

"Hey, where're you going?" he calls out.

"Piss off!" I yell, unsure I meant it.

* * *

_15._

_Clang_

The satisfying ring of a bell shatters the silence; punctuated earlier by sounds of my panting. Beneath me lies fifty feet of brisk spring air above a lake, flanked by an enormous rock wall.

"I win," I call out over my shoulder as I haul myself over the top edge, "how about that pie now, bitch?"

"Alright, alright!" Cato yells, still yards away from the bell, "I'll pay up if I finish this in one piece."

I unhook my line from the anchor point and dangle my feet over the edge, taking in the sight of a star-lit night sky. Reaping day isn't far off now, just _four more months. _The thought of sitting on a cliff in the Arena and watching my kills light up the night sky makes my skin crawl with anticipation.

I look over the edge of the wall and chirp, "Having trouble sweetheart?"

There's no answer. Cato looks over his shoulder at the height separating him from the water. When he looks back at me I can see the shudder in his lips.

"Fuck," he curses beneath his breath, eyes frozen in fear at the next hold.

My lips curl into a smirk. I've never seen Cato so out-of-control like this. He's usually suave and confident, always having a sarcastic reply to everything I do and say.

_C'mon Cato, just a little more. _

He looks over his shoulder again.

"For fuck's sake Cato stop looking down," I shout.

"Fuck, I can't-"

"You _have _to. I want my goddamned pie!"

"Clove I-I-" he stammers,

"What the fuck's the matter with you? Are you-"

"I'm scared, alright?" he confesses, "I'm scared of heights and I was a fucking idiot for doing this!"

Despite every instinct in my body telling me to mock him while pouring a bottle of water onto his terrified face, I don't. Not because I feel sorry for him, but mostly because of how incredible it feels to conquer the hardest rock wall course, and I want him to share the moment with me.

"Look at me!" I yell, leaning over and slapping the rock wall, "You're going to have something else to be scared of if you don't get your ass up here!"

With a loud grunt he lifts himself up to the next hold, and looks down again.

"Fucking pussy, I'll dig your eyeballs out the next time you look down!" I yell.

Cato snaps his head towards me and his eyes light up with fury. He clenches his teeth and powers through the next three steps, until one last hold separates us.

"You fuck-" he pants with exhaustion, "I'll fucking-"

I contemplate holding out my hand to help him up; but Cato deserves his own victory. So I lean over the edge of the wall and hold out my middle finger. With a ferocious roar he yanks his body up and takes a swipe at my face. I duck and he misses, striking the bell instead.

_Clang._

"You made it, pussy boy. Time to pay up," I say as he hangs from the top edge of the wall.

"Don't you fucking call me-" he growls,

I see his fingers slip from the hold before he realises what's happening. Without thinking, every muscle in my shoulders surge forward and I latch my fingers around his hand. But he falls, and Cato drags me over the edge like a ton of bricks. The next second flashes past my eyes in a blur, and by the time it's over – I'm dangling fifty feet over the water with my fingers turning pale beneath his vice-like grip. His rope had caught in the anchor point, and starts to creak under our combined weight. Cold sweat springs out of every pore in my body when I realise the severity of our situation.

"Fuck," I spit, flailing my legs around wildly, "you fucking idiot!"

"Why the fuck did you catch me?" he yells.

_Because we're supposed to protect each other. _

"Well, why the fuck did you fall, dumbass?" I scowl, trying my best to keep my eyes fixed on his.

Glistening trails of sweat run down his hand and into mine. The morning breeze flutters through my hair, and with every swing we make – the rope lets out an ominous creak.

"Cato," I whisper, "you have to let me go."

"No," he whispers back. The fear has left his eyes, replaced by a grim determination as they search the wall for a spot to hold onto.

_"I'm not going to let you go, Clove." _


	2. Lust

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing! Thank you so much, love.**

* * *

"This is bullshit," I mutter under my breath, "he must've at least a hundred pounds on me."

"Clove, you don't get to choose your opponents in the Arena, and I've seen Tributes much bigger than Cato. Now get your ass on the mat and don't come out until the clock hits five minutes!" Enobaria scowls, flashing her pointed teeth.

Due to my string of upset victories over four consecutive guys at the unarmed-combat test, some jackass thought it was a real smart move to pair me up with Cato for the last of five bouts that'll decide my score at the reaping trials. It was entirely unnecessary; we were so far ahead in points that it's impossible for anyone to catch us. However, it's the Academy's policy that no one backs out of anything. Hence we _have_ to fight each other or lose our shot at the Games. Just another year more for me but an opportunity forever lost for him.

He's ready now. The sick smile on his face tells me that he's been wanting to do this to me for a long time but never had the reason to. He's been wanting to pummel my snide, sarcastic face into the mat and hear me beg him to stop. I flash him a discreet middle finger and he nods slowly, grinning all the way.

Brutus' immense, hulking frame standing in Cato's corner looks remarkably relaxed compared to Enobaria. She's whispering a barrage of techniques and advice in my ears but it all flies past my ears as I nervously anticipate fighting him. _This feels weird, _I think. _This emotion I'm feeling. _I swallow down a lump that forms in my throat and cross off the boxes.

_I'm not scared. I'm not angry. I'm not even worried. What's this feeling stirring inside me?_

"It helps if you can get him down to the ground," she comments, "I did that to a larger guy during the Games and managed to tear out his throat." I grin at her advice, baring my relatively tame teeth while she sticks a mouth guard in my jaw.

I take off my shirt and straighten the sports bra beneath. My fingers feel stiff inside the pair of open-fingered gloves I've put on and I flex them around to loosen its grip. I walk onto the mat confidently, feeling ready to take him on; right before looking upon Cato's shirtless body. My lips part in awe as I gaze upon his muscular body moving like a deadly beast towards me. I've seen him shirtless before, once or twice at the water-training area; but that was less than a year ago. How on earth did he get _this _muscular so fast? My eyes venture over his impressively lean body, from the taut pecs that lie tight against his chest to the grid-like muscles that line his abdomen, flanked by lines that are pointing my gaze in the _wrong _direction. He stoops to my eye-level and catches me looking, tapping his gloves on his eyes to direct my attention. I gasp in panic at him noticing and whip around to the mentors.

"C'mon Clove, kick his ass!" Enobaria shouts, oblivious to my indiscretions.

It's not until we meet in the centre of the mat that I realize just how much he towers over me. I crane my head upwards to meet the intense stare of his electric blue eyes. The referee explains the rules we've heard many times but Cato and I are wrapped in our own little cocoon of a power struggle before the fight has even begun: him staring me down, grasping my gloves tightly and me trying to retain whatever little defiance I have left. As I release his gloves, he backs away slowly and flicks his tongue out like a snake, mouthing out words meant only for me:

_I want you._

The words swim around in my head and come to a halt with the realization that _he's been looking at me too. _I suddenly feel immensely naked at the sight of his eyes burning through the fabric of my sports bra and roving over the lines of my figure. I had never thought of myself as a particularly attractive girl, since I'm shorter than most and I smile about as much as a rock on its worst day. But Cato's eyes; _those eyes_.They make me feel like the most desirable girl in Panem, and the most vulnerable.

The referee's whistle blows, snatching my endless thoughts away from me, and I steel my focus on the ferocious sight of Cato's massive frame charging towards me. Just as I anticipated, he slams his hand around my neck and lifts me high up into the air like a stuffed animal. It's happened to me before - in my dreams when I imagine him doing things to me that could make even Enobaria blush. But unlike those other things, I've thought up of a counter-attack for this, so by the time he has me slammed against the mat, I've broken his hold on me and tangled up his arm in a painful wrist lock. None of this fazes him. But as I twist harder and harder on his wrist, he finally gives in and cries out in pain, tapping my thigh in submission.

The referee's whistle sounds, signalling a point to me.

"Cato, no slamming! We need her alive for the Games!" the referee commands.

He looks over at the referee in a blank stare and rubs his wrist in discomfort, the arrogance from earlier having been replaced by the realization that I'm not a pushover.

"That's right Clove, fuck him up!" Enobaria yells.

The whistle sounds again and he wastes no time in smashing my face in with a ferocious right hook. It sends me staggering and I crumble to the mat. I recover my senses right before losing them again to the crushing weight of his entire body on top of me. Before he's able to begin a barrage of lethal strikes to my head, I pull him flush against my own body. His warm, gasping breath quickens upon my face and I can feel his pulse thumping against my breasts, quickened by the fury of combat - or something else. As he jams his hips between my legs, and his lips leave a smouldering trail along my neck; I can't help but think to myself that _this actually feels nice. _

I catch an opening in our tussling and spike my elbow hard into his nose. He momentarily stops holding me down to press his glove against his bloodied nose and that's all the time I need to catch him in a neck lock.

"Cato you have to submit! She's going to break your neck!" Brutus yells.

I feel a tap against my ankle and the whistle sounds. Despite being two points down, Cato has lost none of his resolve. The blank stare from earlier has now been replaced by a wicked-looking grin that looks almost unsettling with the blood on his face. An academy medic comes to patch up Cato's nose but he casually waves her away.

_He knows the smell of blood turns me on. _

The whistle blows and I'm more guarded this time, still dizzy from the massive blow he dealt earlier. He senses my apprehension and shoots for my left cheek with a kick. It's slow though, and I easily unseat him with a sweep that sends him crashing to the mat. This time, I manage to mount him, but I'm so small compared to him that he easily engulfs my body in his arms.

He slips a hand around my lower back and pulls my hips flush against his. My eyes widen in gleaming satisfaction when I feel a bulge growing against me. He's pushing himself into me now, and the look in his eyes tells me that he wants me to know how much I'm turning him on_. _I attempt to shift out of his crushing grip but he yanks me down hard against himself; pressing his thigh up hard between my legs while my knee gets an intimate encounter with his crotch. An involuntary moan escapes my lips, and he immediately picks up on the effect he's having on me. A smile crosses his blood-stained lips at the idea and he resumes rubbing his thigh up against me. With every movement of his thigh sending more and more heat into my body, I can't help but realize _just how hot my face feels. _I jam a knee up against his balls and it causes him to momentarily lose his grip, and that's all the time I need to transition around his back into a rear choke.

"Not fair," he sputters against my elbow, locked tight around his throat.

"Well it's too bad you have balls and I don't," I reply, wrenching on the choke while he helplessly scratches away at me.

"So, would you like to hang out later tonight?" his voice drops to a mere rumble as he begins to go limp.

Cato passes out in my arms before I can reply, and the referee's whistle sounds for the last time.

_I'd love to. _


	3. Pain

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

_Crack_

I hear the sickening sound a full second before the pain crackles across my left cheek. They seem to be mixing up the cheeks so I won't be able to anticipate where the blows are coming from. I shuffle my hands around in the cuffs and blink against the blindfolds to ground myself in the reality that I'm still very much trapped in a chair with no way out.

"What's your name?" a gruff male voice whispers behind me. It takes more effort than usual to recall the rules of the test due to the mind-bending torture and the fact that I haven't been asleep for days, but I try anyway.

_You will now undertake the Pain non-compliance test, the second-to-last test before Reaping Selections. There will be three parts to this test and you are not to give up your name under any circumstances. You will fail the test automatically and receive medical treatment upon producing your name. _

I remember my eyes widening and swallowing hard when Enobaria mentioned "_Medical Treatment_" in the rules. Everyone talks about the Pain non-compliance test, but in hushed whispers rather than the usual boasting which accompanies archery or wrestling. It has a tendency of breaking people, leaving its takers with empty gazes and shaking hands for days. So few were the ones who passed and so shattered were their minds and bodies that not many were left even capable of attending Reaping Selections.

_Crack_

My tormentor strikes my left cheekbone like a chisel hammering against granite: noisy, angry, and violent. The first few rounds were gentler: warm and smooth like the flicker of a flame against my finger. But by now my pain has deteriorated into a jarring mess of multi-directional agony akin to being tangled up in a coil of rusty barbed wire.

"What's your name?" he repeats; his voice calm and unwavering.

"My name is ... Miss None-of-Your-Goddamned-Business!" I spit.

"The interrogators here think you are pretty. It'd be a shame if we had to wreck your pretty little face," he sneers.

"Fuck you!" I yell, having run out of anything smart to say.

Electricity shoots through my neck and into my brain like a blade slicing through paper. I scream at the searing pain entering my body, flailing my head wildly to escape the prongs of white-hot agony they're forcing into my neck. After a minute of trying to keep the electrical barbs fixed in one place while I trash about, my tormentor gives up and holds onto my hair with a tight fist - opting instead to bash my face in repeatedly. As the blows land again and again, it gives me a chance to dwell on the feeling of the hand striking my face, as painful and agonizing it is. It's gloved with a thick material, probably leather, and there's a metal weight beneath that serves to amplify the impact.

This round of beating is particularly tiring for my tormentor. When he stops, I can hear pants of exhaustion escape his lips with sputtered gasps. As for me however, I'm completely shattered: body slumping forward in the chair, barely breathing, with the warm liquid flowing from my nose causing my consciousness to begin slipping away.

"Alright, I think she's had enough. Hit her up and we'll move on to the next test," a female voice interrupts him.

I immediately sit upright and tense whatever facial muscles I have still functioning in anticipation of another blow. But all I feel is a needle piercing my forearm and entering a vein. My heart beats faster and the pain appears more lifelike in nature rather than numb, confirming my guess that they're pumping me full of adrenaline to keep me conscious for the next test. I've only received three dosages so far, which can either mean I'm extraordinarily resilient to pain or they aren't trying hard enough. As my heart begins to race, the thought of having just one more test to pass lights up my mind, and a smile begins to spread across my face.

"Holy fuck, _she's smiling_. That's messed up!" he quips.

"Shh, shut up! Hit her with the other one," she says.

I feel another needle enter the same vein. It's cold this time, but apart from the contents being almost ice-like in nature, there aren't any hints that could possibly give away the mystery drug's identity. I give up my attempts at guessing the drug and allow my captors to remove my utterly devastated body from the chair and hood me - adding another layer of darkness to my tortured world. Somewhere amidst the shoving, I stop trying to walk and just allow them to drag me to the next torture chamber.

I can detect a glint of sunlight beneath my blindfold as they unhood me, so I'm probably outdoors and it's still daylight. They cuff me to a pole of some sort, and as I shuffle my feet around and pull my restraints against the metal bar; it's obvious getting tortured standing is going to be far worse than sitting.

"You failed the test," the man's words explode like a bomb going off in my ear.

_What? Failed? I went through all that for nothing?_

"You are of no further use to District 2, and will now die," he mutters.

The unmistakable click of a gun tells me he's not joking, and I brace my head for a bullet to snuff out whatever's left of my pathetic little life.

"Unless of course, you're willing to disclose your name."

"Piss off!" The words leave my mouth before I can comprehend his question, since refusing to answer has become more of a reflex rather than a calculated response.

A deafening boom, feral in nature, goes right through my head and for a moment I have to clench my jaw in the mental illusion that I've just had my head blown off. An excruciating pain rips through my right ear; but worse, my heart has been squashed to the size of a pea at the maddening feeling of almost being killed.

"Oh I'm sorry. The first bullet wasn't meant for you," he whispers into my other ear. He's obviously done this before, knowing whatever hearing I had in my right ear has been shattered and replaced by a high-pitched ringing sound.

"I want you to take a good look at who's _really _going to die," he growls ferociously as he yanks my hair back.

My blindfold comes off and the light pierces through my eyes like a spear going through my head. I shake myself against his grip on my hair, trying to bring enough of my eyesight back to look at whoever he's referring to. It takes me a while to recognize the figures kneeling in front of me, since they're covered in blood and blindfolded.

"Mom? Dad?" My blindfold goes back on and I know it's already too late. "Fuck you! You fucking fuck! You fuck! Let them go you fuck!" My voice rises to a hysterical scream and I gasp wildly for air between my expletives.

"Tell us your name!" he yells above my frantic screams.

"No! Fuck! Let them go!" I go delusional and begin trashing around wildly.

_Bang. Bang._

Tears begin to spill from my eyes. It's too late. I cling on to the hope that it was some twisted part of the test and they'll still let me go to the Games where I can end my miserable life.

"_Clove!_"

I panic at the sound of my name being uttered, worrying that I had let it slip by accident, rendering moot everything I've fought for up to this point. But the voice is deeper than mine, exasperated even. It only takes one more utterance before I recognize who it is.

"_Cato!_" I yell my lungs out.

"Tell us your name _now_!" he insists. But I can hardly hear him above the screams of my own voice.

My arms desperately attempt to reach out to him before they can blow his brains out, but they're cuffed behind my back. I strain hard against the restraints, feeling the steel cut into my wrists. Pain shoots up my arms as warm liquid oozes into the upturned palms of my hands, but it's _nothing_. Absolutely nothing compared to the heart-wrenching agony of knowing he's about to die. I've been burnt, electrocuted, water-boarded, and beaten to within an inch of my life, but none of that could have prepared me for this. I brace my ankles against the floor and pull hard against my restraints, cutting the metal deeper and deeper into my flesh until it chafes against my bone. It hurts, yes, but all of the agony is drowned out by the sound resounding in front of me.

_Bang._

I can feel the metal bending against my bare bones now. The warm liquid fills my palms and trickles between my fingers. The cuffs creak, and with a loud snap they finally break.

"Get her!" three voices cry out in unison.

My feet take me away from the pole faster than the hands can grab at me. I yank off my blindfold and dash to Cato; whom in the dazzling glare of the midday sun looks like a bloodied-figure kneeling over in the middle of the yard. I make no attempt to slow down, driven wild by the excruciating pain stemming from his death. Before I can stop myself, I collide with him, grasping wildly at anything and everything I can get my hands on. But as my eyes recover from the glare of the sun, I realize my fingers have been grasping at nothing but the steel bars of a tiny animal cage.

_Jabberjay. _

"You sons of bitches," I mutter silently to myself in disbelief. The feeling of not seeing Cato dead sends me crumbling to the ground in relief; I turn around and stay conscious long enough to see Enobaria putting her fist into my face.

* * *

The sound of a file slapping on the table perched by my infirmary bed snaps me out of a morphling-induced haze. I look up to see Enobaria sitting on a chair; from the scowl on her face, it looks like I have quite a bit of explaining to do.

"Bad news," she says. I feebly raise a bandaged hand and make several painful times to open the file. It's made of cardboard and weighs less than an ounce, but I must have permanently used up all my strength to break those cuffs. To my surprise, the test results form one long line of passes all the way to the bottom of the page.

"The bad news is that I passed?" I whimper. I should be ecstatic about passing the test and being one step closer to the Games. But after what has happened, there're still a million unanswered questions stuck inside my mummified being.

"Yes. I told the invigilators you failed the last test. But they maintained you never did give up your name; which equates to a pass."

I look down and let the facts swirl around what's left of my brain.

"Are my parents alive?" I whisper, afraid of what I'll hear

"Yes. They agreed to take part and we didn't hurt them. The blood was just makeup. Also, you had a good dosage of this," she replies, placing an empty vial on the table, "It's a drug that causes sensory inputs to bypass your subconscious disbelief, so everything you saw and heard would have been nothing short of mind-blowingly real."

_Wow,_ I think to myself._They don't fuck around. _

The momentary relief I feel from knowing my parents are alive is snatched away by another name appearing on my lips faster than I can push it back inside my heart.

"Cato," I whisper, his name just mere movements of my mouth. I didn't want her to hear me say his name, or know I care, but she does.

"He's alright," she replies, sitting next to me. The weight of her body shifting the bed causes a spurt of agony to go through my back.

"Clove, we need to talk," Enobaria's voice softens, signaling her transition from brutal mentor to my close friend.

"You do know you and Cato are the top contenders at Reaping Selections this year right?"

I nod quietly.

"And it's very much possible the two of you will go to the Games together?"

I nod again, blood rushing to my face.

"It's good enough, that you know," she says, and I look at her in surprise.

"What made them choose his voice?" I ask in a muted whisper.

"I may have fangs, but that doesn't make me any less of a girl than you," she laughs, patting my bandaged hand and causing me to wince in pain. Despite the condescendence in her face, I can tell she's still hiding something from me.

"No, really. Why did they choose his voice?" I ask again.

Enobaria hesitates for a while before pulling out a clear, blood-stained plastic bag and setting it upon my lap. The sight of two pairs of bloodied and broken handcuffs tells me everything I need to know.

_"__Because," _she replies_, "he did the exact same thing when we used your voice." _


	4. Confusion

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for Beta-ing! The line "****_Confident, deadly, cruel_****" was taken directly from chapter 4 of ****_60 Seconds _****by Estoma. I claim no credit!**

* * *

I'd never imagine in a million years that the voice of one man could put so many butterflies in my stomach.

_"__You're confident, deadly, cruel"_ I say over and over again in my head, trying to ignore the discomfort from my clothes - heels two inches too high and neckline two inches too low. It's modest compared to Glimmer, whose stylists dressed her up like the _whore_ she is. But I can't help thinking about how vulnerable I feel clothed like this; unable to run or fight without tripping. For me, it's the closest thing to being trapped in a cage.

"Give a warm round of applause for District 2's CLOVE!"

The booming voice from behind the curtain echoes in my ears and a guard pushes me forward as though there were Tributes in the past who attempted to flee the interview. Given the way I'm feeling about standing in front of thousands of people, I'd venture a guess and say that a few did.

Caesar Flickerman presses his sickly blue lips to my hand. I force a weak smile and sit on the chair, resisting the urge to scrub the powder off my hand or put a fist into his face. To my horror, the first question flies past my ears as it's drowned out by the leftover applause from the audience and the throbbing boom of my own heart. The quizzical look on his face catches me off-guard, but not for long.

"Oh, I'm sorry Caesar, I was busy thinking about how to redecorate my new home in the Victor's village," I reply, not missing the words I've planned out inside my head.

The audience roars with laughter, then applause. But it does nothing to wash away the mess that has knotted around my head.

"Wow, Clove, you seem pretty confident of winning the Games. What do you think gives you an edge over the other Tributes?" he asks.

"Let's just say that I'm the deadliest killing machine any District can pack into a hundred pounds," I say, putting on my most lethal-sounding voice.

Again, I deliver my packaged lines flawlessly, causing such a euphoric reaction from the audience that some of them are already giving me a standing ovation. The excitement towards me burns so intensely I can feel it electrifying the air, and it further amplifies the shuddering in my lips.

"That's great. But last night, we witnessed a certain Tribute from District 12 outscoring you in the private training session. What do you have to say about her?" he asks.

I pause. No calculated answer for this one. Just the first angry sentence that crossed my mind when I saw an 11 flash past Katniss's face. My lips curl into a smile as I reach into the back of my memory for the exact words.

"We'll see how good she is at archery when I cut every single one of her fucking fingers off," I reply in my most sadistic voice; never breaking my death-like stare into the cameras.

The audience erupts in a deafening chorus of excitement. People are throwing hats at me. Photographers are snapping pictures, and I do my best to conjure up my sickest smile. My shoulders are quaking from their overwhelming reaction, but I see every doubt a sponsor could have about Cato and I washed away in a torrent of thunderous applause.

Cato sits next to me on the couch as we watch the other Tributes' interviews.

"You did a good job," he says "always knew you were fucked in the head."

I do have a planned answer for him, but I decide to save it for another day.

_"__I did it so you could have a better chance of going home."_


	5. Fear

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

"So, you're not afraid of anything huh?" Brutus' voice hardly causes me to stir through the morphling. I flit a glance at him while an Academy Medic finishes patching an ugly flesh wound on my neck.

"I told you, I fucking hate dogs! They scare the shit out of me," I reply. The medic leaves and I resume my efforts at getting dried canine blood off a stack of knives with some rubbing alcohol and the infirmary faucet.

"You didn't look very scared during the last Phobia test," he says, bringing back all manner of vile memories.

It was awful. _God-fucking-awful_. The last test culminated a week-long series of phobia exercises where they threw every possible combination of obstacles at me with the intention of revealing my hidden fears. I had to get swept away by white-water rapids, suspended high above the training floor on a tightrope, chased by swarms of insects and fight my way out of a burning house. All of this while dummy targets popped up around me and I had to strike every one with deadly precision. Needless to say, I passed with flying colors and emerged relatively unscathed - until the last test involving a pack of hungry, pissed-off dogs. I killed eleven dogs before the last one slammed hard into me, pinned me into the ground and sank its teeth into my neck. The scene was surreal in the most nightmarish way imaginable: its feral breath warm on my face and doggie spit spilling all over my chin. I only managed to break its neck just in time before its fangs could sever my jugular vein.

"Well, some smartass thought it was a great idea to put eleven knives in my vest when there were going to be twelve dogs," I scowl.

"That smartass would be me," he replies with a proud smirk.

"Wow, you're a bastard!" I hiss, not even looking over at him, "This is what I get for telling you my secrets?"

"Clove, we have to know whether you are capable of performing in the Arena regardless of what the Gamemakers decide to throw at you. Dog-like mutts are a common occurrence."

"There's nothing in the Arena that can stop me from killing, I just _fucking_ hate dogs!" I repeat myself, hoping he wouldn't give me a bad mark.

"So, how did you cope with the fear?" he asks, looking down and scribbling on my report.

"I imagined they were babies," I reply, "crying, sniveling babies screaming and howling and running at me. I then proceeded to pop a knife at each one of them before killing the last one with my bare hands. It helps me manage my fear if I imagine them to be something less scary, but still bad enough to make me want to _kill_. Babies piss me off."

He doesn't say anything at first, which unnerves me. Then I look over and the expression on his face tells me I've managed to do something no one ever could - I've managed to shock a Victor.

"You are one _fucked_ up kid, you know that?" he comments with a sigh.

"I guess that makes me perfect for the Games," his statement makes me smile, as though it was something everyone has been wanting to say to me, but never dared to.

"No fears then," he says, signing on my test results and closing the file. Brutus crosses to the sink where I've laid my knives to dry off. He stoops to my height and whispers in my ears; the sudden softness of his voice causing my hair to stand on end.

"Clove, I know what you're _really_ afraid of."

_Boom_.

The sound of the cannon stops my heart and snatches the breath from my lungs as though I was the one getting killed.

"Cato?" I whisper into the brisk arena air, the desperate enquiry more meant for myself than him.

With blood pumping through my brain, I take off on a mad sprint to his last known location. The remaining Tributes' names run down my mind in a list: Thresh is dead, the girl from 5 is hiding, and that bitch from 12 is somewhere hunting us. He might have killed her, but she could have gotten to him first; perhaps from another one of her snares. There're only so many possibilities, but she would be dying to kill one of us after what we did with Lover-boy's body.

My heart begins to pound even though I've only been running for less than ten seconds. I'm armed to the teeth with knives, but my hands are shaking so badly I probably wouldn't be able to hit anything. The logical part of my mind tells me to slow down, catch my breath, and stalk slowly through the woods. But I don't; all I can think of right now is where to find him.

"_Cato_!" I clap my hand over my mouth fast enough to muffle my shout. As I sprint further into the woods, the image of him lying face down with an arrow through his head flashes through my mind. My brain begins to conjure sights of Katniss descending upon me in a sudden ambush as I kneel by his corpse. As I leap across the stream, my knife slips away from my trembling fingers, clinking as it washes down the rocks. But I don't stop, not even to pull another one from the array of knives fastened to my jacket.

There's a tall figure in the clearing. Since there's only one male Tribute left in the games, I throw caution to the wind and sprint past the last line of trees. The sight of Cato kneeling over someone else's body sends a wave of relief over me.

"Hey look! Ginger-girl ate some bad berries and offed herself," he mutters.

"Oh, surprise, surprise. Not that smart after all is she?" I sneer, trying to keep myself from sighing in relief.

I bend over to regain my composure, and fail miserably at keeping my trembling hands under control.

"Are you alright? You look like you just sprinted a marathon," his voice dips to a tone I only hear when he's concerned. I hate that voice he uses when he treats me like I'm some girl needing to be babied and looked after. He places a hand on my arm to help me up and I flick him away. My mind churns with acid and I think of the most scathing and sarcastic reply I can imagine.

"I needed to take a piss. Then I heard the cannon and decided to use your mouth as a toilet before the Hovercraft could take you away," I say, making sure it's loud enough for the whole world to hear.

"That'll win you some sponsors for sure," he replies, not even batting an eyelid at my comment.

"Let's get out of here. She's probably looking for us now," my hands stop shaking and I pull a knife from my jacket. It's not until I see my reflection in the glint of the blade that I realize: _I'm as pale as a fucking ghost._

"She's awfully quiet walking around at night, so don't fall asleep like that bimbo," Cato commands.

"Yea, yea whatever. Just go to sleep," I grumble, chucking him a spare jacket.

Night falls upon us and I sit cross-legged facing the direction we last saw her. Just one Tribute to go. One more before we can both go home and forget about everything. I look over at his body, heaving softly in the sleeping bag; each rise and fall a blissful reminder he's still alive. He looks so calm with his eyes closed, as though the blue beneath them stood for the tumultuous crackle of electricity rather than the serene calmness of water. I don't mind it either way though, as long as his heart still beats and he's next to me. I hold my breath to try and hear his pulse in the deadly silence of the Arena night.

"Clove?" he whispers against the sleeping bag.

"Shut up and sleep," I scowl.

"Were you running from someone, or something, just now?"

"_Holy mother of fuck_, would you drop it already?" I insist.

"I'm sorry, it's just that I've never seen you scared before and it looked like you were," he whispers before dozing off.

_Idiot, _I cross my arms and think to myself, _don't you know that I'm not afraid of anything? _

A breeze brings Brutus's voice back to me, and I feel tears welling in my eyes as they gaze upon his sleeping body.

_I'm just afraid of losing you. _


	6. Despair

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

"Well, that was lame. You didn't save her for me," I scowl, kicking the Fire-girl's limp body. I back away from the pool of blood still gurgling from the open wound in her neck, keeping my gaze fixed on her lifeless eyes the whole time. My shoulders sag in relief as the last howls of Muttations disappear into a vast hole that has opened up by the Cornucopia.

"What the fuck did you expect me to do? Take an arrow in my eye so you could have your fun?" Cato replies, wiping her blood away on his pants, "She almost got one off at me!"

"Fuck it, we don't need sponsors anymore. She's dead," I sigh and sheathe the knives meant for her "let's go."

As we finish taking off the last pieces of our heavy armour, Claudius Templesmith's voice booms across the Arena.

"_Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favour_." His words echo around the Arena, ending with an ironic reverberation of the last word.

Before my brain comprehends the gravity of his last words, my legs have already thrown me off the Cornucopia roof, sending me stumbling into a mad dash away from Cato and his sword. I reach the woods in less than ten seconds; the fatigue of running from Muttations lost to the new burst of adrenaline of escaping Cato. In a minute, my mind begins catching up with the gruelling pace my legs have set. It's impossible to win – not against him and a sword. I could put one or two good knives into him from mid-range, and then what? He'd close the gap in an instant with his long strides and run me through. I could wait him out – hope he starves to death before I do; we both know that Careers are hopeless at surviving. But this was not how I thought of it ending, _not like this_.

"_Fool," _I curse myself, "_you bought into their lies and allowed yourself to hope."_

Sweat springs from every pore on my face and slithers down my face in as I realise how much of an idiot I was. I flit a glance over my shoulder in anticipation of Cato breaking branches and kicking leaves in a furious pursuit, but an ominous silence stares back at me. The boy's probably plotting my death now, and he would be right in doing so. I pull out a knife and slump down on a tree root, my heart pounding from the mad dash through the woods. It'd probably be foolish to hope for a Muttation to appear from nowhere and end my life quickly.

It takes a full minute before my emotions catch up with my breath.

He's been by my side since we were children. Ever since we were told we would one day bring glory to District 2, he had always been a part of my life – whether I knew it or not. Since he's been separated from me in the Arena for the first time, I can't help but feel the loneliness creeping up on me. The fact that Cato's probably going to kill me does nothing to erase the vacancy inside me, and the thought of living the rest of my life like this makes me shudder. Before the rule change I knew it would only be my victory if he somehow got killed. But after I knew we could win together, I happily cast all those thoughts aside in the foolish hope of being able to go home with him. Do I still want to win, knowing Cato has to die? Do I really want to go home without him; back to a big empty house and some fanfare with the rest of my life to think about what I've done? A lifetime of pounding other children into the dirt in the hope they will come back alive? I rub the blade against my cheek and ponder the Mentors. There's a cold empty stare in their eyes and resignation in their voices they have long given themselves over to, and it tells me a lot about winning the Hunger Games. You win alone, and you'll remain alone for the rest of your life.

It takes another minute for me to reach a decision.

_I'd rather die than go home without you._

I begin scraping the knife against my trembling wrist, thinking about the irony of losing with the same weapon I fought so hard to win with. The steel is cold and shiny, but in the pit of my despair it looks as welcoming as the cool Cornucopia lake on a hot day. I press the blade into my wrist until the red glistens against the paleness of my skin; too shallow to die from, but deep enough to give me a taste of how it's all going to end. The sting of the cut and the sight of blood seeping from the wound causes me to shake so hard I have to bite my hand to keep still, and my eyes brim with tears from the memories I'll be leaving behind.

_Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye Dad. _

_Goodbye, District 2, with your breath-taking sunrises and your stoic charm. _

_Goodbye, Enobaria and your comforting pep talks. Goodbye Brutus and your witless advices. _

_Goodbye, Cato. I guess we'll never hold hands on our Victory Tour while the other Tributes' families spit at us. _

I break into a sob that sounds alien to me. But eventually I allow my own emotions to figure out this crying business for themselves and the tears to roll down my cheek. The sound of weeping makes it impossible to hear Cato creeping up on me.

"No last goodbyes?" Cato growls, jamming his sword against my neck. The suddenness of his approach takes me by surprise, and I furiously wipe away the tears from my eyes. It's obvious he doesn't want to kill me; not yet anyway. I would've been dead by now if he wanted to.

"You of all people should know I lack manners along with compassion and sanity," I reply, being glad he's going to be with me in my final bittersweet moments. A look of anger is written on his face, although I've no idea if it's directed towards me or towards the Gamemakers.

I flick his blade away and rise to face my executioner. Cato's not wearing his armour, suggesting he didn't come here looking for a fight. He looks at the blood dripping from my hand and his gaze softens. I press the knife against my wrist again.

"Don't," he warns, raising his sword towards my heart.

"If you don't want me to, then do it yourself!" I yell, wrapping my fingers around the tip of its blade and bringing it to my chest. I wince in pain as it cuts through my shirt and pokes me between my ribs.

I can feel the shaking in his hands resonating through the metal and into my own trembling hands.

"What's the matter? Katniss Everdeen good enough for you to kill and I'm not?" I yell, frustrated at being denied the sweet release of death.

"No, it's different," he says, voice quivering in ambivalence. "I hated her, and so did you."

"_Pussy!_" I snarl, pushing his blade away, "you're a _fucking_ pussy!"

I spit in his face, attempting to taunt him into killing me. But he merely wipes the saliva from his eyes and slaps me hard across my cheek. It sends me staggering and my blood begins to boil. I let out a blood-curdling scream of fury at his attack and blindly fling my knife a split-second before he raises his sword and runs it through my stomach. The pain rips through my body and sends me to my knees. I summon every ounce of strength I have to pull out his blade and looking at the massive gash in my body. Since I can see my own intestines through the gaping wound, I could venture a guess and say that I am _fucked_.

_And so is he._

Cato pulls the knife from his stomach and drops it before slumping on the ground by my knees. The pain from my wound is so blindingly white-hot, I can feel my eyes shuddering shut from the agony. I shift myself to look at the wound I've made in his body, and a smile crosses my face before I drop to the ground next to him

"_Cato_," I whisper, the strength starting to leave my body, "you didn't have the _guts_ to kill me."

I can make out a smile spreading across his bloodied face, but the sound of trumpets blaring in the distance lull me away to the sleep that sweet unconsciousness brings.


	7. Hope

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

_Clove, _

_I can only hope you'll forgive me for what I've done. Even if you don't, we should still talk about it since we're supposed to be neighbours now. I don't hold anything against you for what you did, and I hope you'll recover soon. They won't let me know when you're coming back, or if you ever will. But one thing's for certain - I'll be waiting on the roof of the tenth house in District 2's Victor's Village every sunrise thinking of the last moment I saw you truly smile. _

_I miss you. _

_-Cato_

* * *

It's still hours before dawn when the train pulls into the square. The empty, chill air greets me as the train attendants deposit me onto the bare concrete platform with nothing but the clothes I'm wearing and my crutches. Before I can turn around to ask for some food, a whistle sounds and the train slips off back to the Capitol. I stagger off on my crutches in search of the Victor's Village, accompanied by bits of newspaper fluttering in the breeze and the snoring of stray dogs. This wasn't exactly the homecoming I envisioned after winning the Hunger Games, but it's fitting given the way we won.

_We didn't deserve it. _

I begin my uphill hobble to the Victor's Village; it overlooks the entire District as a reminder of the riches awaiting those foolish enough seek it. It's a moderate incline, but my shoulders soon ache from the burden of carrying my limp, useless legs on crutches. Cato's sword went in deep; deep enough to sever a cluster of nerves at the base of my spine. The Capitol doctors did their best to repair the damage, but it took three months of intensive physiotherapy just to regain a fraction of my former mobility. Three long, gruelling months of Morphling, stoic-faced doctors, and mind-numbing isolation from the world. Enobaria managed to get in a solitary minute of visiting time while I was recovering, during which she told me a piece of unsettling news.

_"The two of you weren't supposed to win together; it was a mistake and the Capitol isn't very happy about it. Seneca Crane took the fall, but you can never mention the fact that you won with him and neither can he. That's the reason we kept you and him separated under the guise of your treatment_," she said, before being hustled out by Peacekeepers. A discreet wink in the direction of my mattress revealed where she had hidden Cato's smuggled letter - a single glowing piece of paper that I read over and over again in the almost unfathomable hope that he was still alive and well.

A company of trainee Peacekeepers huffing up the hill on their morning run reminds me of how much my lungs are heaving at the exhaustion of my climb. But with every throbbing heartbeat, the letter in my jacket burns into me with anticipation that I'll see him again. By the time I've reached the gates of the Victor's Village, my vision has turned blurry from fatigue and my shoulders feel like they're on fire.

_One…two…three…_ I count off the stone houses and my heart leaps from my chest when I reach _ten_ at the only unit with a flicker of light in the window.

I begin hobbling towards the light, propped by nothing but a pair of wooden crutches and the tenacity of my hope. I don't even stop upon reaching the open door. But the stairs are dark, and my body is tired despite my heart being resolute. As I hobble up the final steps before reaching the roof-top patio; my shoulders give way and I crash face-first onto the staircase.

"Hello, Little Miss Cripple," Cato says from behind a couch on the roof.

"Fuck off Cato!" I yell, my voice rising in the overwhelming joy of seeing him. "I'll kick your ass once I can walk again."

"Glad to see nothing has changed," Cato says. He comes over to help me up but I shove him away with a crutch. Further attempts force me to pull my jacket aside, revealing a row of knives strapped to my hip.

"Whoa, whoa, I surrender," he sneers, raising his arms in mock defeat. "I don't want another three months of being on a liquid diet."

"One blindly thrown knife fucked you up that bad?" I ask, finally gaining the strength to hobble up the last steps and into the brisk, dawn air.

"Yeah, messed up my bowels too," he replies, pouring a cup of tea and setting out some muffins from a basket.

"Holy shit, muffins! I'm starving," I yell, shovelling the food into my mouth before he can stop me.

"They booted you off the train without any breakfast huh? Same here," he says.

"Something's going on Cato, everyone's trying to keep us apart," I mumble, mouth full of muffin crumbs.

"No shit, bird-brain," he comments before receiving a punch in the arm, "it almost feels like our lives are at risk right now just from being together in the same place."

"We weren't supposed to win together," I reply, washing down my hard-earned breakfast with warm black tea, "did you see the Victory posters? It's always either your ugly face or mine, never together."

"It's the lone Victor that gives the Districts hope as a symbol of the Capitol's mercy," he whispers, looking over his shoulder, "having two Victors makes it seem like we worked together to outsmart them, and they're trying to distance themselves from it."

His words swirl around in my head. _The Capitol's certainly going to hold us for ransom now._

"This is all your damn fault," I mutter, looking down at the floor, "you should've just killed me."

"I was trying to save you!" he says, grabbing my hand and pleading with a strained voice, "By walking into you without my armour on. I gave you an opportunity on a fucking silver platter to go home, and you didn't take it!"

His hand, calloused from years of swordplay, trembles around mine. I look away from his face, resisting the urge to be drawn into his magnetic gaze. Every muscle and fibre of his being locks onto me in anticipation of my next reply.

"I d-didn't need your goddamned h-help!" I stammer, yanking my hand away from his. "What m-makes you think I wanted to go home? What makes you think that I…would've…"

The words elude me; I want to tell him exactly why I did it. That I could've never brought myself to kill him; that everything I did in the Games was to get him home alive. But the warrior inside me stands resolute and unfeeling, and I begin trembling with a heady mix of fear and anticipation at what he's going to say next.

"I think we need to give ourselves some time before we talk about the exact feelings we have for each other," he says slowly, making sure I hear every word. Obviously Cato has spent the better part of his mornings thinking of the words he'd say today.

"Who the fuck said I had any feelings towards you?" I hiss, "Besides annoyance."

"And that explains why you came straight here the moment you could?" he replies without a hitch.

"Fuck you, Cato," I snarl, my face blushing and turning red hot with shame, "fuck you and your sentimental bullshit. I was hungry and could smell your muffins a mile away."

He smiles, knowing he won this round.

"Why didn't you?" I whimper, looking up at him with tears in my eyes. "Why didn't you just kill me and gotten it over with?"

We sit on opposite ends of the couch, staring each other in the eyes and daring the other to give in to our emotions. I've played mind games before, but this is something else entirely. Looking into his wild, untamed blue eyes and finding nothing but affection makes my heart pound with longing. He breaks the emotional stalemate by reaching into his jacket and pulling out a stone ball the size of my fist.

"Brutus told me to work on my talent," he says, "I decided to take up stone-carving."

I pick up the sphere and it breaks into two when I try lifting it off his palm.

"Nice talent you have Cato," I comment sarcastically, "maybe you should try carving yourself a new pair of balls and see if they break."

"I couldn't stop thinking of you when I broke it," he replies, ignoring my scathing comment, "that you and I were always two halves of the same whole. Don't you get it? I was so wrapped up with the thought of winning the Games that I never confronted myself about the cost, that it meant losing you. It wasn't until the very end when I followed you into the woods, that I realized just how much you've become a part of me. I'll never be able to go on living the same way without you."

"That's you," I snarl in resistance, "I don't need you, or anybody. It'd be better if I had just killed myself, or you."

My heart cracks in pain with every hateful word I throw at him, and a genuine expression of hurt crosses his face. I set the top half of the stone ball back with a trembling grasp, and it becomes flawless again. There aren't even any cracked seams that would give it away as being broken. He keeps the stone carving and looks down at his knees; the feeling of rejection must be unfamiliar to him.

"So you're crying because of how incredible the muffins are?" he whispers after an eternity of pained silence.

I had been so lost in Cato's voice that I hadn't noticed the teardrops trickling down my cheek and splashing on my knives. I furiously wipe away my tears, angry at myself for allowing emotions to get the better of me. It's not until he moves over and brushes the hair from my eyes that I realise just how hot my face has become. I look deep into his eyes and attempt my most defiant stare, although it's rather pitiful given the sorry state I'm in.

"You don't know how much I care for you," he says, his lips quivering from the gravity of his words, "because you were too damn busy feeling the same way for me."

I snivel and stare at my legs, trying not to think about how close he is or how cool his breath feels on my face. He touches my cheek and moves nearer, but I shove him away, still unwilling to give in.

"Hey dipshit," I scowl, picking up my crutches and flinging them behind the couch, "look what I can do."

I had tried it before and failed hard, but I'd do anything right now just to break the romantic tension. I begin gingerly hoisting myself off the couch and attempting to walk without crutches. It's enough of a struggle just trying to stand, and it takes a full minute of hoping some feeling would come back to my legs. It doesn't, but I try moving them forward with nothing more than the faintest firings of nerve endings to guide me. For about ten steps I struggle precariously to walk with hands held out beside me in an illusion of balance.

"Oh yea!" I call out to him, looking over my shoulder, "Who's talented now, bitch?"

The numbness overtakes my legs and I stumble, crumbling to the ground in pain. I let out a cry of agony and Cato hurries over to help me up. His hands are steady and unwavering, a stark contrast to the trembling mess I'm in. The feeling of his strong arms lifting me to my feet fills me with strength, but instead of helping me back to the couch as I expected, he merely tucks the mess of hair behind my shoulders and smiles.

"_Ready to try again_?"

His words brings back a myriad of memories of him from our days at the Academy. The Cato who never gave up, never settled for second place, who always fought the odds no matter how stacked against him. The same Cato who was a splitting reflection of myself.

I set my sights on the stone wall twenty paces away. The first two steps send pangs of pain up my hips, but I clench my teeth and remind myself that _at least I'm feeling something_. The next five steps put beads of perspiration on my forehead in my body's battle against giving in to the numbness. Cato stands next to me and cheers me on in his own quiet way, pointing to the next cobblestone after every step I've taken and telling me to keep pressing on. By the tenth step, my legs begin to feel like bare lengths of bone soaked in acid, and the dryness inside my mouth amplifies with every breath I take. At the fifteenth step, my legs are running on nothing more than my iron-like will and the silent persistence of Cato's gaze.

I take off my jacket and chuck it on the floor in an attempt to lighten the burden. The rising sun casts shimmers of light around the patio, reflections from the knives lining my hips. I steel my resolve and push through the last five steps, grunting with determination every step of the way.

Cato's arms are there to greet me when I reach the wall, catching me as I collapse into him with breathlessness. He pulls me close to him as I press my wet, sobbing face into his chest and take in the scent of his body as my prize.

It's only then that I finally surrender myself to the comfort of his embrace,

_And the hope that his lips bring_.


	8. Desire

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

A sullen silence greets me as I wander into the darkness of the dining car. I had hoped for someone to be here: an escort, a stylist, even an Avox whose disaffecting gaze would've dissuaded me from staying awake this late - but there's not a soul in sight. I gaze out of the window at the sight of District 11's fields fading into the horizon. The memory of the visit still persists like an unwelcome visitor, and I know it'll leave me with a few more faces to apologize to in my dreams

The liquor trolley sits beside Brutus' usual dining chair, its bottles glinting in the moonlight. My fingers wander around the neck of a new bottle of Rye whiskey and I turn its screw-cap slowly, feeling it resist my advances. _This one's just for me_, I tell myself, _unopened and untasted_. I try lifting it off the rack of other half-finished bottles - decimated from years of Victors trying to drown out the voices on the Victory tour. The bottle has a hefty weight in my palm, not too much for me to lift, but heavy enough for me to pretend it's too much to carry at the moment.

"_But you're a strong girl, aren't you?_" a voice quips. I can tell who it is without looking. It's Mr Mellark, Lover-boy's father.

"_Go on then, you must be awfully thirsty_," says another voice, which I'm sure belongs to Primrose Everdeen. I close my eyes and imagine seeing hers - bright blue and filled with electrifying rage. The anger in those eyes belies the politeness in her voice.

A hand closes over my fingers as they linger on the bottle cap. I open my eyes but there's nothing, though the feeling of her hand remains. It's huge, engulfing my own, and the voice matches it.

"_You need some help?_" Thresh's sister asks. She looks strong, and could easily help lift the bottle and pour me a glass.

"_Good going!_" Primrose and Mr Mellark chime in unison, "_Let's give the thirsty girl a drink!_"

My hands clutch the rails of the trolley and I jerk it hard, drowning their voices with the clinking of Liquor bottles. I turn and scurry back to the cabin empty-handed with my heart pounding from the vividness of the hallucinations. This is too much for me to bear, and I need to press my face into the sheets and close the pillows over my ears before I go insane.

_And I have nine more districts to go. _

He's standing in the corridor by his room and the suddenness of his presence elicits a gasp from my lips. The moonlight drapes his bare torso like ripples on a lake. Cato's been waiting for me like a hungry beast waiting for its prey. He knows I wander the train at night, looking for solace in the silence and this must be another one of his twisted ways of mocking me. I stand at the opposite end of the corridor and we stare each other down in the darkness, daring each other to make the first move. But instead of the snide smirks that usually grace his face every time we have staring contests; I see nothing, not even a smile. Soon I detect the faintest sparks of desire emanating from his eyes, and suddenly feel immensely naked dressed in a simple nightgown.

Brutus emerges from the Cabin between ours; his sleep and booze-ridden eyes widen at the sight of both his Victors standing in the hallway. "What the hell are you two doing out so late?" He slurs.

He points at me and yells, "Clove! Get back to your room!" before turning around and shoving Cato hard. He staggers from the sudden assault, looking back at his mentor in surprise. "You can't be seen together with her!" Brutus whispers, before raising his voice and yelling, "If I see you outside your room before sunrise, I'm going to kick your ass so hard you'll still be in a fucking wheelchair when we get home!"

Cato looks over Brutus' immense shoulders and smirks at me before going back into his cabin.

_Looks like it's my room tonight then_

I press my ears against the inside of my Cabin door and listen for footsteps, before slipping out and creeping down the corridor to his room. My knuckles curl to knock on his door, before realising the sound would surely wake the mentors - so I turn the knob and head straight into the comforting warmth of his bed. I press my face into the sheets and inhale deeply, saturating my lungs with the intoxicating scent of his being.

"You didn't knock," he whispers against my hair, curling his arms around my waist and pulling me against himself.

"I didn't need your fucking permission," I reply, sighing at the sheer comfort of being held.

"So this room belongs to you now?" he asks, smoothing out my hair and grazing his lips against the nape of my neck.

"No, but you do," I reply. Whether I'm arching myself against his lips or away from them, I haven't the slightest clue.

For a moment we lie against each other, content just to hear the steady thump of our hearts and the sound of each other's heavy breathing punctuating the silence of the train. He unclasps his fingers from around mine and runs them along my hips.

"How're your legs doing? Can you feel them?" he asks, slipping his fingers beneath the nightgown's fabric and trailing them softly against my thighs.

"Is this another one of your cheap excuses to feel me up?" I reply, drumming my fingers against the sheets and deciding whether to push him away.

"I know you like it, Clove," he says, slowly shifting the hem of my nightdress along my thigh.

I hesitate for a few seconds, allowing myself the indulgence of his touch, before shoving his hand away. To my delight, he puts his hand back on my thigh immediately. This time I let him stay, and I can feel his lips curl into a smile against my neck. _Cato likes having his way with me._

"See?" he whispers, lips tantalizingly close to my ears, "I know what makes you tick."

"So do I," I reply, pushing my hips back and feeling him harden behind me.

His smile disappears, and I can feel his breath coming out in sputtered gasps. To my surprise, he smoothens the nightgown over my knees and pats it in place. _Cato likes playing this game as much as I do. _

"Why did you come here?" he asks, slipping his fingers between mine and holding me around the waist.

"Same reason you came to my room after District 12," I reply.

"I don't remember telling you anything," he whispers against my ears, "you were too busy pushing me away."

"I could see it in your eyes."

"So you saw how much I wanted you?" he replies, slipping a strap of my nightgown from my shoulder and kissing the exposed skin. A fire begins to light up within me, but I shrug off his lips and replace the strap.

"There was something else. Guilt, perhaps."

Cato sighs, sliding his hands down the lines of my figure to my hips and pulling me closer against himself.

"I needed to escape," he mutters against my skin, pressing kisses against the base of my neck and working his way down the ridges of my spine.

I try to ignore the heat flowing from his lips into my body as the word swirls around in my head. _Escape_. We're the only two people in Panem facing the prospect of seeing the families of people we've killed and there's nowhere to run besides the sanctuary of each other's arms. A soft moan escaping my lips reminds me how carried away I am at letting him turn me on, and I roll over to face him.

"So you find your escape by coming to my room and trying to feel me up?" I ask, pressing my hand against his chest so he wouldn't be able to get closer, "Is this what I am to you?"

"I sought you out because seeing you reminds me why I killed them - that I _had_ to do it to bring you home," he replies, combing his fingers through my hair.

For a moment I forget I'm supposed to be holding him away and he senses it, closing the gap between his lips and mine. My hands move to his shoulders and I contemplate pushing him away. But the salty-sweet taste of desire on his lips is so _magnetic_;I'm unable to push him away with the limp wrists that his kiss has left me with. I sigh deeply against him when we part, my body quivering with the tingling buzz of electricity.

"_We brought each other home_," I whisper, cradling his neck and pulling his lips back to mine. Cato rubs a knee between my thighs and I edge away from the burning sensation he's leaving on my skin.

"I hated that they made us stand so far apart when facing the families," he whispers against my neck, "it felt like I won alone."

My lungs empty out in one long gasp as Cato grazes his lips along my neck slowly and methodically, trying to elicit as much pleasure as he knows my body will emit. My heart begins to pound at the anticipation, and I grip his shoulders in an attempt to push him away. But he remains resolute, snaking his hands around my lower back and pulling me into him. As I edge higher and higher away from his knee rubbing between my thighs, his lips move lower and lower towards my breasts.

"They don't want the Districts to think we won together," I mutter against his hair, "it makes the Capitol look stupid."

"So we're just effigies for the pent-up anger the Districts had during the Games then," Cato whispers against my collarbone.

I run my fingers down his bare chest, looking for the place where I wounded him. There's no trace of it, but he winces in pain and his body tenses up when I touch a spot between his abdominal muscles.

"No one's ever left quite the mark on me the way you did," he says, looking up at me. I edge myself downwards and press a kiss against his lips. My fingers trail lower still, seeking him out. He's rock hard now, and the thin fabric of his boxers does nothing to conceal his arousal. I touch a fingertip to its head and he clutches my arms tightly.

"Likewise," I smile against his lips, wrapping my fingers around his cock and pushing it into my stomach, "you really _fucked _me_ hard_ that day."

Cato's lips tremble against my mine, as if he means to tell me something. But there's nothing, just the deep gasping of his breath and the feeling of his heart throbbing against my breasts. He presses his lips hard under my jaw and leaves a smouldering trail all the way to my collarbone. I close my eyes and moan deeply against his hair, bunching my quivering fingers around the sheets. My heart had been pounding so hard I hadn't even noticed him lowering the neckline of my nightdress with his teeth. He closes his lips around a nipple and the sudden jolt of pleasure causes me to flinch; my fingers close around his throat and I shove him far away from me.

"You might as well stop resisting me now," he scowls in frustration, "since we have nine more Districts to get through anyway."

Enobaria leans back in her dining chair between us and takes another sip of whiskey. I can see Brutus peeping at us through a glass door from the adjacent cabin. She shoots him a hostile glare and he saunters away. The hazy skies of District 5 have long left as well, replaced by endless lengths of blue where the sky meets the sea on the horizon; a sign we're approaching District 4. Cato stares at the floor with hands in his pockets. Apart from the sound of clinking ice-cubes, the silence is unbearable.

"This shit has got to stop," she scowls, flashing her pointed teeth at both of us. Cato looks at her briefly before returning his gaze to the carpet. She sticks out a hand and yanks his collar aside, revealing a set of teeth marks on his shoulder.

_My teeth marks. _

"The stylists are going to be talking about this," she sighs, touching the points of her teeth, "pretty obvious they aren't mine. Clove, would you like to explain?"

I want to tell her - it was my best effort at remaining discreet; I bit him to prevent myself from crying out his name. _It's hard not to with the way he makes love to me._

"I…I'm sorry, Enobaria. We got into a…fight, and he had me…pinned," I stammer, looking down at my knees and fiddling with a knife, "it won't happen again."

"Well it'd better not!" she snaps, slamming her empty glass on the table, "The Games are over! You're fucking Victors! So behave like it and stop fighting with each other!" She's yelling so loudly the entire train can hear her.

We nod slowly in unison, eyes fixed on our feet the whole time. I've never seen her this upset over something so trivial. Then again, she didn't have another Victor to share nights with during _her_ Victory Tour.

"Get out!" She yells, and we both rise to leave without question, "Not…you," she adds, pointing a steady finger at me.

Cato looks at me quickly before ducking his head and shuffling out of the dining car. I sit my trembling body into the chair and look at her sheepishly, not knowing what to expect. She pours herself another drink and her shoulders begin to relax, but the tension remains electric.

Enobaria grabs the collar of my jacket and yanks it from my shoulder, revealing four finger-shaped bruises lining my biceps. I snatch it back from her and cover myself.

"I suppose that came from another one of your…fights," she says, taking another sip of whiskey.

_"No,"_ I want to say,_ "Cato holds me so tightly when he comes, I can't feel my fucking fingers for an hour after."_ But I can't bring myself to, so a nod is all she gets in reply.

"When did it start?" she says, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"The fights?"

She leans over and whispers in my ear, "Clove, I wasn't born yesterday. Tell me when you started fucking him."

I gasp at the audacity of her question, looking down at my feet as blood rushes to my face. Of course she knows; I was an idiot to think otherwise. My mind begins to race, thinking of an evasive reply. But it's useless; she probably knows everything already. So I might as well come clean and hope she doesn't hit me.

"Eight," I sigh.

"Dammit!" she hisses, downing the rest of her drink and slamming the glass on the table again, "I hoped it wasn't really happening."

_Wish I could say the same. _

"Listen, we know this is tough for you. We've been through it before," she says, filling her glass, "you just have to find a way of…coping."

With a flick of her fingers, the crystal tumbler slides over and comes to a rest in front of me. The fragrance of Malt Whiskey is tempting; I can feel my emotions numbing just from inhaling a whiff of its scent. But it reeks of something else - of failure, of the need to escape and hide. Aren't we from District 2? Proud warriors who never backed down from a fight? Perhaps we lost our will to, after all the fighting in the Arena. No more fight in them, just once-proud shells of warriors who found better hope at the end of a liquor bottle than at the handle of a sword.

"No thanks," I reply.

"Suit yourself," she mutters, taking back the glass and having another sip.

I look out the window at the shores of District 4 rapidly converging upon us. Frankly, I can't remember if I killed any of their Tributes since the bloodbath happened too quickly. But it doesn't matter; in a few hours the look in their families' eyes will tell me. Enobaria's stylist appears behind the glass door and motions for her to start prep.

"Clove," she whispers in my ear as she's about to leave, "try messing up your bed next time. _The attendants will think you slept in it._"


	9. Disgust

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing**

* * *

A breeze coaxes the scarf from my shoulder and I nudge it back in place, continuing to plod along the neon-lined pavement back to the training center. It's the middle of summer, and the Capitol has a knack for ratcheting up the Climate-control settings on their streets, making it cold and windy when it should be hot - and warm when it's winter. _Why can't they leave the fucking seasons alone?_ They can't leave anything natural alone, these queer Capitolites. I keep my gaze fixed on the marble-tiled pavements, trying to avoid looking at their twisted, surgically altered beings. But most of all I'm avoiding their glances, the curious pointing of fingers and, god-forbid – requests for photographs.

"Are you Clove? The Victor Clove from District 2?" a voice asks.

_Oh god here we go. _I don't even look up to see the source, choosing to nod quietly and continue on my way. Unfortunately, his footsteps start following me.

"Clove! It's so amazing to see a Victor! What're you doing in the Capitol?"

I stop and glare at the man, dressed in a pale cream suit with a purplehat and green pants. My stare intensifies as the color combination makes me want to hurl. But there's a girl holding onto his hand, who can't be more than ten. I look at her brown curls and my heart softens – but only enough to spare him the least of my attention.

"I got injured, have to undergo physiotherapy," I mutter, before carrying on.

_Right, physiotherapy_.

"It looks like you're making a good recovery! You won't be needing it for much longer!" he replies with with a Capitol inflexion.

_I never did. No idea why they're keeping me here; it's probably a thinly veiled excuse to separate me from Cato. They also make me work out eight hours a day because there's nothing else left for me to do. Also, I think I can't feel my legs again. _

"The doctors just want to make sure I'm doing fine," I answer, keeping my gaze fixed on the pavement.

"Where's Cato?" he asks, pointing at a Capitol Victory Tour poster with his face on it.

I stop and stare at him with widened eyes. My lips curl to form a spiteful reply, but the presence of the girl forces me to reconsider. I arch my eyebrows and ball up my fists, trying to control my temper in public.

"Good question!" I hiss, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "I was hoping you could tell me!"

My nerves are frazzled, whether from the hours of pointless exercising or the encounter on the street, I don't know. But I do know my reflexes have been dulled, since I don't notice the person in my apartment until his shadow emerges from the study. My hands snap to the hem of my skirt where I've hidden a knife, but the sight of him standing in front of me causes me gasp in awe-struck amazement.

I'm paralyzed with a mix of panic and confusion at his presence. My heels snap together to attention and I render the best salute my trembling hands can muster – the reflex brought about from years of saluting senior officials at the Academy. He acknowledges me and I relax myself.

"P-President Snow," I stammer, still confused at the sight of his regal proximity to myself.

"Clove," he says, voice dripping with deliberation, "how lovely to see you."

I grasp the pleats of my skirt and curtsey, "The pleasure is mine, President Snow."

"Please, let's not stand on ceremony. I trust your legs are doing fine?" His voice sounds softer and much more direct than what I'm used to hearing – loud, booming and directed at the world.

My brain races to think of a fitting reply, "I sincerely thank the Capitol for their undying eff-"

"Save it," he cuts me off, "if I wanted to hear from a parrot I would have stayed at my mansion."

The stern reply takes me by surprise. My lips part and I breathe again; that's when the stench hits me. _Blood_. Together with something else sickeningly sweet and cloying. It wafts around in my nostrils before slipping into my lungs and threatening to force the last bits of my dinner into a reappearance. I don't remember him smelling _this awful_ during my crowning. But it happened so quickly; he barely placed the Victor's crown on my head; choosing instead to drop it there and make a quick exit. I saw a replay of Cato's crowning; slow and stately – with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. Doesn't take a genius to know who his favorite Victor is.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper, regretting the rude question the moment I've said it.

"Please – have a seat. You must be tired from all your therapy," he says, ignoring my question and pulling a chair by the dining table.

I take my time to walk over to the chair as the stench multiplies with every inch closer. He places a hand on my shoulder and I suppress my urge to flinch away from the sheer chill his hand emits.

"I hope you'll forgive me for intruding into your house like this, but I need to make myself very clear to you tonight – and I hope you wouldn't mind me being direct at all. Wouldn't you?" His voice drips with malice, and with every parting movement of his lips he blows more and more of the sickening stench towards me.

I shake my head, eyes fixed on my knees the whole time. He seats himself across from me and continues.

"What do you think about your new status as a Victor?" he asks.

I think of the most politically correct answer I can muster, "I feel like I didn't deserve to win."

"You didn't," he replies without a hitch. The answer is so unexpected that I have to look into his eyes to see if he meant it. The disdainful stare on his face is so gut-wrenching I avert my gaze back to my knees.

"They should have brought the Mutts back when you ran into the woods," he snarls, leaning over and breathing more of his sickening breath onto my face, "tell me, Clove. What possessed you to even _think_ about killing yourself?" The anger is evident in his voice now, and I would never have thought an important man like President Snow could ever get angry at a bug like me. I should have anticipated this when he said he was going to be direct. But regardless, it doesn't change the way my heart is pounding so hard I swear he's able to hear it.

"I…I…didn't want to die at Cato's hands. He's…an extremely powerful Tribute," I stammer, with the faint hope he will believe me and end our discussion.

"Is that so?" he replies, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. The stench fades away for a moment, before slamming itself back into my lungs with full force. "Or is there something else going on?"

My heart stops so abruptly I feel faint from lack of circulation. _He knows_.

"There's nothing going on, Sir," I reply, trying to keep the very evident fear coursing through my veins from leeching out into my voice.

He snickers at my answer, causing me to panic even more knowing he sees through my every lie.

"I'm sorry if I've caus-"

"You disgust me," he cuts me off with a frown.

"Wha-?"

"You're ugly," he snarls, tapping a cold finger to my chin and tipping it up, "nobody wants you." I look away again, trying to avoid his gaze. His eyes are fixed on mine though, and I can feel them burning away at my soul.

"I should have had you killed in the Hovercraft, it's a pity those damn doctors only care about saving lives," President Snow stands up and moves closer to me. I look down and bite my lip in anticipation of what he's going to do next; probably put a gun to my head and force me to beg him for mercy.

"Such a shame Cato couldn't bring himself to finish you off. That would've been perfect," he stands behind my chair and leans down next to my ear, his stench almost _visible_ in the air, "he's just _perfect_ isn't he?"

My lips tremble at the thought of Snow reaching into my mind and pulling out the words I've often ascribed to Cato as I daydreamed about him. Beautiful, flawless, _perfect_.

"Y..Yes," I stammer as he seats himself next to me.

"It amazes me how someone so beautiful could love an ugly bitch like you," his words cause me to shuffle around in my chair in discomfort. They'd normally piss me off coming from someone else, but Snow is so goddamned downright _repulsive _it doesn't even matter. I begin thinking of the last girl who called me ugly many years ago, and how she'll never be growing back her fingers.

"You trained at the Academy didn't you?" he asks. Instantly, my lips curl to form a _'no'_, since being a Career is still technically illegal. But he probably knows everything about my life already, so I nod in reply.

"What do your parents do?" he rests his hand on my knee and sends goosebumps along my skin. His hand is _cold_. Has he surgically altered his skin to be this cold? It feels like one of those ice packs the Academy Medics use to treat bruising.

"Th…they're metalworkers," I stammer, my apprehension turning into disgust at his touch. President Snow begins running his hand up my thigh and I grasp the sides of the chair in discomfort. The sensation is _vile,_ to say the least and I tense all my muscles in an attempt to keep my composure.

"A strong heritage for a strong girl," he says, shifting the hem of my skirt up.

_Oh no._

He finds the knife and pulls it from its sheath, and I yank the skirt back over my thigh.

"Did they teach you how to make knives like this?" he asks, placing the knife on the table within my grasp. My eyes shift to the gleaming blade and the thought of killing him suddenly flashes through my mind. I mean, besides the repulsive odor, he's practically defenseless. There aren't even any ceremonial Peacekeepers he's usually seen in public with. But it'd be hell afterwards. Cato would probably die too – painfully.

"A little," I whisper, tearing my gaze from the knife to avoid raising his suspicions.

"You'd know then, how much this piece of metal reflects your life," he says, leaning back in his chair.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"The iron is birthed in the mountains. Only the best ore gets chosen to be refined in the furnaces; and the smith strikes it with a hammer to form its desired shape. Then it's tempered in a scorching oven until there's nothing left but the finest steel, ready to do its work,_ or be discarded,_" he says slowly, ensuring I catch every word.

"Clove, you've been training since you were a little girl," he continues, "the Games were your test. Now is the time for you to fulfil your purpose - or be discarded like a useless rag."

"W...why me?" I stutter.

"Because I've always been able to depend on District 2 for a little muscle. And frankly, I can't find another use for a wretched girl like you," he replies, reaching into his suit and pulling out an envelope.

I stare at the plain, beige envelope sitting under my nose, and contemplate everything it could possibly represent. I reach out a trembling hand and my fingers hesitate on the paper as though touching it would seal a lifetime of servitude to the devil. However, curiosity gets the better of me and I open it, flipping through pages of people's names and pictures. Some of them I recognize, most of them I don't.

"I don't understand," I say, shutting the folder, "what do these people have to do with me?"

He picks up my knife and lays it onto the folder. The horrifying realization of what he wants me to do slams into my head like a meteor; I feel all the blood drain from my body and I lean over the table, grasping it to prevent myself from fainting.

"That's impossible!" I gasp in protest, "There's at least a dozen people in there!"

"And how many people did you kill during the Games? Five? Six? You killed them all so swiftly and quietly it made for awful television. Fortunately, this isn't a show anymore, and I'm giving you until the Quarter Quell." He rises from his chair and moves towards the exit, "You were born for this, Clove. It's no point denying yourself what fate has ascribed to you,"

His stench begins to lift as he moves further and further away from me. But there's something worse now, the irrevocable feeling of _dread_ settling itself in the pit of my stomach. I can feel my insides churning with the revulsion at his plans. Worst of all, it's obvious he doesn't need me – he has battalions of peacekeepers ready to do his will. This is all just part of his plan to control me, to make me _pay_ for being the unworthy Victor.

"What if I don't?" I whisper, just as he reaches the door.

"Nothing much, the folder will go to someone else with an extra name in it," he says nonchalantly, opening the door and looking at me one last time, "_and it won't be yours." _

I hide the envelope and sit at the table for hours in the vain hope President Snow's visit was a nightmare and I'll wake up in Cato's arms. I sit for so long my arms turn stiff and my legs feel numb again. It's nearly midnight when Enobaria comes back, and the sharp clang of her purse on the glass table snaps me out of my daze. Tears brim in my eyes at the realization that my reality has turned into a nightmare way worse than the Games.

"Clove," she says, looking into my eyes as though I had fainted, "have you eaten?"

I look at her with trembling lips, unsure of what to reply her with, since_her name could very well be in the folder_. Enobaria sniffs at the air, and immediately I see all the blood draining from her face.

"Oh no, not you," she says, hugging me to herself, "you're just a girl."

My hands reach around her body, hoping to feel the strength her arms always bring; but this time there's nothing. I press my face into her chest, and my hair starts turning damp from the wetness of her tears. I try to hold on, to remain strong in her presence. But with her strength gone, so too has my usual stubborn emotional resilience. Soon, a tear escapes my eyes and I feel my face turning warm from the shame of crying in front of someone I admire so much. But, it's nothing compared to her – bawling and weeping as though her parents have died.

After an eternity of Enobaria sobbing into my hair, I realise she's really crying for herself.


	10. Guilt

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

"_Two minutes_," a robotic voice announces over the loudspeakers.

The Hovercraft shudders as it plunges into the sea, gliding beneath the surface to its destination. I take a last drink of water and tuck the bottle securely behind the seat. God knows how long I'll be out there; the last mark was in the middle of District 7 and I wandered the woods for a day after, nearly fainting from dehydration before that blundering idiot of a Hovercraft pilot managed to find me. I am _not_ in the mood to kill today; then again I never am. So, once again I hope for a fast one - no dogs, no pleas for mercy, no ugly fist fights, and god forbid, _no one stumbling upon my murder in progress. _

"_Ninety seconds._"

I unstrap myself from the diving chamber's seat and take deep breaths as water begins to pool around my feet. From the time on the clock, it should be dusk outside. Sunset would've been preferable, since I'd like to think my victims had a lovely view to gaze upon as they bled to death. I shouldn't be this philosophical over murder, but given my situation, I doubt even President Snow could blame me.

"_Sixty seconds._"

_Once again, there's sixty seconds to another round of "kill or be killed." _

_Once again, the Capitol wields its control the Districts, and over me. _

_Once again, I'm killing strangers to keep him alive. _

"_Thirty seconds_."

I fit a respirator to my mouth as the Hovercraft's engines cut off, signaling our final approach. The water pools around my chest and I ponder the last time I saw Cato, the last time I felt him, and the way he made me feel. It must've been amazing; spectacular enough for me to put myself through all this in the hope that he would still be alive. The taste of salt water entering my mouth reminds me I'm still stuck in a bitter reality and probably still will for years to come, no matter how hard I try to please Snow.

"Arriving at insertion point," the pilot's voice cuts in, "we'll be back in an hour."

I depress the "speak" button on the loudspeaker and growl through the respirator, "You'd better be, or I'll fucking kill you next." The water rises over my head and I slump in the chair, breathing through the respirator and hearing nothing but bubbles and the steady beat of my heart. It's such a contrast to the rapid thumping of anxiety before my first few kills. After a while, the fear of dying during an assassination fades away into the realization that it wouldn't be so bad compared to living in this nightmare. I close my eyes and wait for the pressure hatch to open, imagining what the pilots are saying to each other; probably a unanimous conclusion that I'm a nutcase and not to be fucked with.

The hatch opens, and I pull myself out of the Hovercraft. As expected, the dusk sky glows a dim violet from beneath the surface. But this isn't the time for scenic reminiscence; I push myself off the hull and swim underwater, confident from my earlier study of the map that the shore is nearby. Unfortunately, I filled the respirator with barely enough oxygen to last the swim, forcing me to chuck it in favor of holding my breath for the last ten yards before hitting the beach. I emerge from the sea amidst a neat row of fishing boats beached on the shore. There's a limestone cliff directly in front of me, and I bury my wetsuit beneath a pile of rocks. It's my first time diving for a hit, and I'm surprised that the wetsuit has managed to keep the rest of my outfit dry. With the sea breeze drying the salt water from my face and the dusk sky giving way to a starry twilight, it's easy to get carried away by the view, especially since I _don't want to do this._ But it's hopeless to think otherwise, and I choose a long hike up an adjacent slope instead of a more stealthy rock climb up the cliff.

After a mile of trudging in silence, the settlement looms into view through the sea fog. I pull the jacket's hood over my head and scamper from house to house, staying hidden behind walls and avoiding the direct view of windows. It doesn't take much to remain unseen; the village is quiet and apart from the occasional drunkard pissing in an alley, there isn't a soul in sight. Eventually, I reach the mark's location: a large two-floor house identical to all the others. I lie low against the ground in an adjacent unit's shadow and squint at a map, trying to make out the red 'x' confirming the target. It's inhabited, as seen by the lights in the house; but apart from that, there's nothing but silence - which comforts me knowing there won't be any children watching their parents die tonight.

I fold away the map and decide on an approach. The front door's too risky and would most likely be locked, and so is the back door, since it would likely lead to a kitchen where the mark's spouse could be making supper. From experience, I decide that the solitary unlit bedroom on the second floor is my best shot. I look over my shoulder before scurrying over to the target house. The gaps between the wall's horizontal wooden planks make an excellent surface to wedge my knives into, and with these I climb my way up to the second floor.

I haul myself into the empty bedroom and a burst of adrenaline courses through my veins. I've done this before, but there's something about murder that's just so _wrong_ I can never get the tremble out of my hands. He's in the next room, I can hear his voice when I press my ear up against the wall. From the one-sided dialogue it's obvious he's talking on the telephone, and I hold my breath, listening for the end of their conversation.

_Click_.

He hangs up the phone and I slip into the hallway. His door's unlocked and slightly ajar. My heart begins to pound as I touch the tip of my boot to the edge, careful not to leave a shadow. With a deep breath, I kick it open.

The mark sits behind a desk. He sees me before I do, and lunges for the bed. I send a knife into his ankle and he cries out as he falls over. But the bastard's tough; he continues crawling towards the bed, leaking a trail of blood from his leg. I slam another blade between his shoulders and he slumps to the floor in pain, hands still desperately reaching for something beneath his bed. It takes another second to mount him from behind and end it with a tug of his scalp and a knife across his throat.

Out of habit, I leap off my kill as his blood pools on the floor. One would assume I'd get used to the sight and smell of murder by now. But there's no getting over the same bloody stench that invades my dreams and the sight of crimson lining my bedroom walls. I pull my knives from his limp body and for the first time since stepping into the room, I take a look around.

There're pictures everywhere of him with a woman: smiling, hugging, and kissing beneath the sunset. Now I'm glad I didn't look around before killing him, since I would've hesitated to, knowing I'd be tearing them apart. They look happy, and I can't help imagining that this would be how Cato and I might have turned out if we won on different years. I pick one of the picture frames and study the expression on their faces. It's hardly a celebratory occasion in the picture: they're lounging around on a boat with a net full of fish lying by their feet. But the look on their faces spell joy, serenity, and hope for a better tomorrow._ This must be what it looks like to be in love. _I stare at the picture long enough to catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass, and a teardrop slithers its way down my cheek.

A gasp from behind snaps me out of my daze and I drop the picture frame, sending shards of glass shattering around my feet. Immediately, I raise my knife and aim it at the woman, but she just stares at me with the blood drained from her cheeks. No screaming, no enraged outbursts of violence, not even falling to her knees and begging for mercy – she's different from the others.

"I knew this would happen someday, just didn't think it'd be so soon," she laments, looking at her lover's dead body lying in a pool of blood.

I want to tell her I'm sorry, but am I? If I was truly sorry I wouldn't even have come here; I'd have killed myself after the first one.

She looks straight at my uncovered face and a shudder goes through my body. _Now I have to kill you too, woman._

"I know you," she whispers, her green eyes glistening with pain and staring directly into my soul, "you won last year."

I wipe the tears from my face and nod.

"President Snow has powerful methods of persuasion, I'm sorry you had to go through this. It must be tough trading your soul for people you care about," she says, sniffling back her tears.

Her words send a shockwave through my heart; I drop my knife and it clatters upon the floor. My jaw hangs open in stunned silence, the implication of what she's said swirls around in my head and sinks in my belly. _Snow has been trading threats for favors since a long time ago. _The woman takes a step towards me and I flinch away, picking up my knife and pointing it at her. She shakes her head and crosses over to her lover's body, kneeling by his side. His blood soaks the hem of her white dress, sending fingers of red crawling up her thighs.

"Make it quick," she mutters, caressing his hair.

I take an apprehensive step towards her, and then another, unsure if I'd be able to hit her with my hand shaking this hard. I close my eyes and try to calm myself down, but it's no use; all I see is the life-like image of her lying in his arms on a fishing boat without a care in the world. But I _have_ to do this; she was in love with him and now he's dead. It'd be bittersweet for them to be together in life and death. I begin thinking of Cato, and how I'd be begging for death if I ever found him dead in a pool of blood. The thought of him dying brings another round of tears to my eyes and I think - _maybe I'm not such a badass after all._

I clench the knives until my knuckles turn white, before swallowing hard and throwing two into her skull. She slumps over his body with her arms outstretched, as though she was trying to protect him in his final moments. Now the fingers of red have crept up the entirety of her dress, a macabre representation of her lover's last embrace.

A quick check shows twenty minutes left on my watch, giving me plenty of time to hike back to the beach. Out of the many unanswered questions I have; there's only one that can be answered right now. I reach under the man's bed and pull out a long, black velvet bag. Whatever's in it, he intended to keep it hidden away from sight, only to be opened for a moment like this. My fingers untie the cord and I pull the fabric away.

Immediately, I'm relieved I was able to kill him before he could reach it, since it'd probably hurt like hell being speared with a golden trident.


	11. Rage

**Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

There's something unnerving about hearing President Snow's voice over the phone.

"- and lastly, make sure you _don't mess this up_," he snarls, before hanging up.

_"Damn bastard always leaves things hanging in the air," _I think, putting down the phone and realising how much my hand is shaking. Perhaps it was his voice, or how I could almost smell the stench of blood and roses wafting through the phone. But mostly it was because he had _never_ called me before a hit.

Now, my eyes wander around the Hovercraft's compartment, covered with maps, black jackets, equipment and _knives_ – dozens of them, lining the walls and stacked against the side of my bunk and some soaking in a basin of ethanol since last week when I couldn't get the dried blood off. I pull out a crate containing body armour, because _I_ _have a bad feeling about this hit._

* * *

I pause for the hundredth time in the air duct and hold my breath as a pair of patrolling Peacekeepers walk beneath me. It's unnerving how easy this is turning out, despite Snow's ominous phone call. All I had to do was land on the Government Building's roof via one of the dozens of Hovercrafts and sneak into the ventilation system – hardly a feat given my size. From there onwards it was crawling and listening for Peacekeepers through three floors of air ducts.

I unscrew the duct's grating with a pocketknife and lower myself into an empty storeroom, checking my location against a map. The mark's in an office thirty feet away, and I was warned it would be guarded closely. Snow had told me to regard Peacekeeper casualties as "collateral damage"; as if he needed to remind me, given how much fucking collateral damage I've racked up going through his hit list.

Sure enough, I spot two of them as I ease the supply room door open. They're guarding a long hallway between me and the target room, and from the way their helmets are tilting, it's likely they're dozing off. There's a vulnerable section of their armour beneath the helmet, and I pick two slender knives suited to skewering flesh.

Bursting out of the door and sprinting down the hallway, I kill both of them before they can even reach for their weapons. _Sorry, _I think, hurdling over their bodies, _collateral damage. _The doors zoom pass my eyes in a blur of grey, and I slow down to read the room numbers.

"234…235…236…" I count off the rooms, before stopping at _Room_ _237._

I crouch and ease the door's handle downwards. My heart stops when I discover it's unlocked. _This is definitely way too easy;_ _there's probably a pack of wild dogs in there ready to tear me apart_. But fuck it, I'm a godforsaken bitch who deserves to die anyway. I brace myself against the wall and smash my heel into the door, throwing my knife at the first person I see.

The knife clatters uselessly at my feet. I look at the mark, seated behind an ornate wooden desk inlaid with gold. It's him alright, paunchy and red-faced like in the picture. I hurl another knife at him, and it falls to my feet again.

The door slams shut behind me, and I shout expletives, throwing knife after knife at him. All of them fail to reach their target, bouncing off an invisible wall and dropping to my feet. My last knife flies back at me and cuts across an unarmoured section of my shoulder, and I grasp, dropping to my knees in pain. Enraged, I hurl myself towards him, picking up one of the fallen knives and attacking the invisible wall. A searing pain erupts on my face and hands, and it flings me back against the door. I leap to my feet and stare the translucent glow shimmering through the air.

"What on earth –" I gasp, looking around the office. There're blueprints and maps and monitors hanging everywhere with live camera views of laboratories and control rooms. I look at the portrait of President Snow hanging over the door and the realisation hits me –

_Gamemaker._

It dawns on me that I've met my match this time. I couldn't have gone through Snow's long list of hits without finding someone as adequately prepared as him; a mark who outmatched my lethality with the ingenuity of a Gamemaker. Of course he installed a force field in his office, it's the perfect defence against an assassin.

I fall to my knees and begin sobbing, knowing I'm about to die.

"Just kill me," I plead, dropping my knife and covering my face, "I don't want to live anymore."

He looks upon me with an unchanging look of apathy, neither expressing surprise nor pity at my intrusion and abrupt breakdown. After an eternity of watching me sob into my gloves, he speaks.

"We'll commence our discussion once you've composed yourself," he says, with a clear and stoic voice.

"No, please kill me, I'm begging you,"

"You must have many questions," he says, ignoring my pitiful pleas for death, "first of all, you know who I am, and I know who you are, so let's get that out of the way. The next question you're going to ask would be –"

"How'd you know I was coming?" I ask, clutching my shoulder and feeling the cold blood seep through my fingers.

"You've been very busy lately," he presses a button and the screen behind him lights up. Newspaper scans flash on the screen, with pictures of my kills accompanied by scandalous headlines – all of them Capitol-sanctioned lies covering up the fact that Snow ordered the hits. "Did you not think they all had something in common?"

"I wasn't told. I guessed they were Snow's enemies," I murmur.

"Snow's enemies are my friends," he whispers, switching off the screen and looking away at the wall, "Clove, you killed twenty-seven of my friends."

My shoulder stops bleeding. I want to tell him I'm sorry, but if I was really sorry I would stab myself and die right now. _It's not like I had a goddamned choice._

"And it would have occurred to me, as they died one by one; my name would be somewhere along this chain of blood, so I just sat here and waited for you to show up, which you did. Your next question would be -"

"How'd you know it'd be me?" I ask.

"Frankly, I didn't. I just chanced upon videos of your kills during last year's Games and how the victims always had slashed throats. Coupled with the knowledge that Snow has a habit of manipulating Victors for his personal gain, it's obvious he would've made you do it."

I gasp, recalling what Annie had told me. Snow had been doing this to the other Victors. I can only hope he had the decency to leave Cato alone, since he was the favoured Victor.

"Snow threatened to…kill him, didn't he?" he asks, his voice lowering to a drone.

I nod, unsure of whether I want to hear what's coming next.

"When was the last time you saw him?"

I shake my head. It was returning home from the Victory tour months ago. He had pulled me close to him as I stopped by his house to tell him I was going away for more useless physiotherapy.

_"Don't forget me," Cato pleads, pressing his lips against mine with an urgency I've never felt before._

_"How the hell am I supposed to forget a face as fuck-ugly as yours?" I whisper against his lips, clutching his shirt and trying not to cry._

_"That's more like it, I'll see you in a few months."_

But he never did.

"Months ago," I answer, "recently, Brutus sent me a couple of videos of him pulling pranks on students at the Academy, but that's all."

Plutarch looks at me with a look I can't quite put my finger on. The silence is unnerving, and I swallow hard at the lump forming in my throat.

"He's not dead is he?" I ask with a trembling voice.

"No," he replies. Strangely, his answer offers little comfort.

I clutch the seams of my trousers, "What did Snow do with him?" I whisper. This time, I'm sure I don't want to hear the answer.

Plutarch hesitates before answering, "Cato is considered to be one of the most attractive and desirable Victors ever to grace the Games. Snow knows that, and what he usually does –"

"No!" I gasp, not needing to hear one more word before the sickening thought creeps into my head. I heard about it before, in hushed whispers between the mentors; about the forced dates, the prostitution. But I always imagined it to be some kind of grown-up Capitol-esque drama they gossiped about.

"-he sells the Victor to the –"

"Shut up!" I scream, picking up a knife and hurling it at him. It bounces off the field, sails past my head and sticks into the wall, "Lies! Lies! Bloody lies!"

"I have pictures," he replies, pulling out a stack of photographs from his drawer, "although I doubt you're the type who indulges in salacious tabloid stuff."

I throw my fist into the force-field, and it sends me hurtling towards the door a second time. In my bloodcurdling rage I charge headfirst into the invisible wall; this time my vision fades momentarily and I feel my heart jump.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he says, shuffling through the photographs and picking one out, "these fields can kill."

He holds it up towards me, and I barely have to register the grainy image of Cato getting into bed with a woman to feel my blood boiling.

"Fuck you!" I yell, sending a knife flying at the picture. It bounces off the force field and sticks into the portrait of President Snow. The sight of a knife embedded in Snow's forehead dissipates my rage, but only by a bit. With all my energy spent and my head throbbing from a near-concussion, I slump to my knees and begin sobbing in defeat. In between the tears, I see Plutarch looking at Snow's portrait with a smile spreading across his face.

"It's…it's impossible," I stammer, "Cato would never let Snow do something like that to him,"

"Of course he didn't," he answers, "Snow just threatened to have you killed."

Of course, Snow played the both of us like a fiddle! And like fools we believed him, although we didn't have a choice to begin with. My head hangs low, and I feel my heart breaking at the thought of Cato in a strange bedroom, getting fucked by some Capitolite slut who's treating him like a play-thing or a piece of meat. I look at my knives scattered on the floor, and think of committing suicide, but even dying wouldn't do me any good. Snow would've closed the loop linking him and everyone on the hit-list, and Cato would still be a whore.

"We had a good thing going," Plutarch laments, pressing a button under his table, "until you came along and crushed us all."

I hadn't even noticed the humming sound until it ceased; Plutarch has switched off the force field. I toss a knife into the space in front of me, and it sticks into his table. He stands up and moves closer to me.

"You're not afraid of me killing you?" I ask.

"You'll want to listen to my … proposition," he suggests, lifting my limp body into a leather armchair. The ease with which he lifts me reminds me that I'm but a child compared to him.

Plutarch seats himself on another chair and gazes upon Snow's portrait with the knife still stuck in its forehead. He rests his chin upon his fingers and immediately, I can hear the gears of his Gamemaker mind turning.

"No, you can't possibly-" I gasp, clutching the armrests and feeling the blood leave my body, "it's impossible."

"It's only the natural order of civilisations that the oppressed will one day overthrow the oppressor," he muses, eyes still fixed on Snow's portrait.

"If it's so easy, why haven't you or your friends done it already?"

"Another tyrant will take his place. Believe it or not, Snow isn't the worst President to have ruled Panem,"

I ponder his words, and how a President more evil than Snow could possibly exist.

"But then it's hopeless, we're stuck then," I say, my contribution to the discussion hampered by a lack of political knowledge and the whirlwind of emotions churning around in my head.

"Has it ever occurred to you how many people there are in all the Districts?" he says, turning to me.

"Somewhere in the vicinity of five million?" I answer, trying to recall whatever geography lessons the Academy gave us. But I wouldn't be surprised if that was just another lie the Capitol has fed me.

"You've seen a sizeable chunk of them during the Victory Tour," he says, "what did you see in their eyes as you passed through the Districts?"

"They hate us. But since we killed their children, I don't blame them."

"They hate you because you represent the Capitol. But right now, the Districts are simmering with tension. Your little victory with Cato had a part to play in creating an atmosphere of defiance, since a pair of Tributes managed to circumvent the rules. Snow's done an excellent job at playing it down; they don't know whether to hate you for killing their children, or embrace you as a symbol of defiance towards the Capitol,"

"And how exactly do you know this?" I ask.

"We had people on the ground in all the Districts, gathering information and preparing for an inevitable rebellion. That was until you killed them all."

A shudder goes through my body as I recall – I did pay each district a visit on Snow's hit-list; not even District 12 was spared.

"If you ever manage to kill Snow, it'll light a firestorm in the Districts. The people would be inspired to an open revolution and you'll become a symbol: the Victor who twice defied the Capitol - just like Snow is the symbol of a cruel institution which has existed for generations. "

"But, how would they know it's me?"

"We'll get footage and disseminate it among the Districts, it's not a hard thing to do."

I clutch my head in my hands as his words swim around in my head. Killing Snow. _Videoing _myself killing rebellion. All I want to do is free Cato and myself from Snow's clutches. Plutarch senses my headache growing, and pours me a glass of brandy – which I politely decline. We snap our heads at the sound of stomping boots and yelling erupting outside Plutarch's office. The Peacekeepers have probably found their two dead friends I left in the corridor; I hadn't intended on staying _this_ long. We wait for the commotion to pass before continuing our deadly discussion.

"So, how on earth am I supposed to kill Snow and get away with it?"

"We got that figured out. A plan's been underway for a long time, but we just needed the right person to do it - someone who could start a fire in the Districts." He goes to his desk and presses another button, and blueprints flash across the screen

"You should be familiar with reading blueprints by now," he says, watching the layouts flicker on the screen.

I don't even have to look at the titles to know what the place is. There's only one building in the Capitol that warrants such a huge building plan – the President's Mansion. My skin crawls with electricity as I realise - _this could actually work._

Plutarch retrieves a folder from his desk, crammed with folded prints and sheaves of documents, and places it into my hands. A thin phone slips from between the pages and lands on my lap.

"You don't want to lose that," he says, pointing at the phone, "it's a direct line to District 13."

"Now you're fucking with me," I reply, picking up the phone with the tips of my fingers, "District 13 is a myth."

"You're only a button away from knowing the truth, although they won't be friendly; you killed off most of their resistance network."

I stare at the single, glowing button in the middle of the phone, unsure of whether it's indeed connected to District 13 or if the phone is just a grenade and pressing the button will blow my head off. _Maybe I'll find out another day. _The sound of doors banging causes me to twitch; the Peacekeepers are going through the offices, trying to find the perpetrator of the double murder in the hallway.

"You should probably get out of here," Plutarch whispers, downing the brandy he's poured out for me. I hadn't noticed it until now, but he's been sweating profusely.

I nod and start for the window.

"Clove," he whispers, as my fingers reach the window latch, "you forgot what you came here for."

The look in his eyes tells me everything; he's willing to die right now for the plan to succeed.

I shake my head, "No, no. Not like this, not after all you've told me." The sound of banging gets louder and louder.

"Snow will sense something amiss if he doesn't find my body here; he might even have you or Cato killed. I was dead anyway, from the moment Snow put my name on the list. I just hope you make this worthwhile."

I open my mouth to protest, but he has already begun lighting a cigar. It takes him several attempts with his trembling fingers, but he succeeds in having a last smoke.

_"They're in here!" a_ voice hollers from outside.

_Bang, bang. _The door shudders against its hinges.

Plutarch returns to the chair by his desk, and swivels around to face the Capitol night sky. He produces a pair of purple pills from his pocketwhich he places in his mouth, and I stand behind him with a knife across his neck.

"One more thing," he says, before swallowing, "Snow's marrying Cato off to the highest bidder next month."

"_What?_" I yell, but my hand has already jerked across his neck.


	12. Envy

**A/N: Credits to Estoma for beta-ing!**

* * *

"Ma'am, we shouldn't stay here too long," the driver mutters, drumming his fingers on the wheel, "this place is crawling with Peacekeepers."

I motion for silence, slumping further into the backseat and keeping my gaze fixed across the street. The Capitol's entire roster of celebrities and socialites have turned up for a theatre production's opening, and everyone is clamoring for a chance to be seen on the red carpet. Journalists and TV-crews keep the theatre's grand entrance lit with lights and camera bulbs flashing away, while A-listers and fashionistas soak them up with their flamboyant posing and strutting.

The driver from District 13 and I hadn't intended on coming for the freak-show. We were supposed to be staking out egress routes for a hit on Snow. But he had driven past the event taking place, and I figured it'd be a good chance to see if Cato would make an appearance.

Cato emerges from a limousine and I press my nose into the car window; steaming the glass with my breath as I look upon him from afar. The photographers surge forward towards him, eager for an opportunity to get a shot of District 2's golden boy. My heart leaps from my chest as he turns and I can make out that he's well, but it breaks when another woman saunters out of the limousine. I grasp the edge of my seat as she wraps her arms around him and plants a kiss squarely on his lips, right in front of all the cameras.

_"__Slut," _I think, tightening my fingers around a knife,_ "I'll cut your fucking lips off and force them down your throat one day."_

She's wearing a long, backless dress tailored to show off the hideous winged creature tattooed along her entire back. They turn to face the cameras as a couple, and a wave of relief washes over me as I notice her pulling his hand across her waist. The seething envy within me hasn't left though, and I clench my teeth thinking about how – despite being at least twice his age, she's still tall, blonde, rich and beautiful and _everything I'll never be able to offer him. _

I peer into a pair of binoculars, trying to make out Cato's face as he's illuminated beneath the glare of the lights. There's not a shred of happiness I can find in his smile. There isn't even an expression of disgust on his face as the woman paws at him, eager to show off her newly-acquired play-thing. I try as hard as I can to remember the last time I saw him look like this, with his pursed lips and vacant eyes. It takes a while, but eventually the memory of Thresh's death filters through, and how he ran towards me with the same look of utter _fear _on his face.

_He's still afraid of losing me. _

They disappear behind the theatre's entrance, and I relax my grip on the knife.

"Alright, I've seen enough," I say, taking out my phone and dialing Enobaria's number, "let's get the fuck out of here before I puke."

* * *

"Miss, we've arrived at the restaurant. Have a pleasant night," the Capitol driver announces through the limousine speakers.

It was difficult obtaining a date with Cato. But Enobaria managed to make it happen with her endless list of Capitol admirers and backdated favors. All I had to do was cough up an exorbitant amount of money; which I had - thanks to a rich Capitol merchant who _also_ happened to be on Snow's shit-list. The date would've been impossible if not for a peculiar fashion trend going on in the Capitol.

Thanks to the Press' salacious gossip-mongering, some bright soul started spreading rumors about the identity of the mysterious assassin who was going around murdering Victors and prominent Capitolites. Most of them involved a mask-wearing man who could fly through the air and disappear into the shadows, which was dumb as shit considering I never wore a mask and committed half my hits in broad daylight. Nevertheless, many Capitolites took to wearing masks as part of this latest fashion fad.

_Perfect, now I can walk around unrecognized. _

I fit a black, crystal-studded mask to my face and enter the restaurant.

"Good evening, Miss," the maître d' murmurs, without looking up from the reservation book.

"Clymene Heloise," I reply, trying my best to stand naturally in six-inch heels.

The Maitre'd looks at me and inhales sharply. "It's lovely to see you Miss Heloise!" he exclaims in a Capitol accent, "That's a stunning dress you're wearing tonight. Please, follow me – Cato has been expecting you."

My heart begins to pound as thoughts of meeting Cato flutter through my mind. He swings open the doors and I can feel every pair of eyes in the posh restaurant trained upon me as I walk in. The stares intensify as I make my way to a private dining area at the rear; everyone wants to know the rich woman lucky enough to get a date with Panem's most sought after Victor. I walk steadily past the restaurant's premium tables with my masked face held high, ignoring the stares from envious onlookers and the rising pulse in my chest.

The maître d' ushers me into the room and clicks the door shut. The room's dimly lit, and there's an exquisite array of fine china and silverware on a large dining table in the center. But I didn't come here for a posh dinner; I came here for the boy I'd die a million times for. Cato stands before me, looking as sharp as he was during his Victor's interview. He avoids my gaze, choosing instead to look at a clock on the wall. I grasp the edges of my dress and curtsey. Cato bows and kisses my hand, but strangely, I don't feel a thing.

"Good evening Miss Heloise, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight," he greets, pulling out a chair for me.

A cold silence hangs between us as Cato takes his time to pour me a glass of wine and lift it slowly to my lips. The clock ticks by slowly, and already I can imagine him doing this to countless other women, engaging in trivial courtesies and biding his time until the inevitable act for which they paid for. I try to catch his eyes with mine, but he keeps looking at the floor, shifting his feet around in silence. He catches a glimpse of my face as I remove my mask – and instead of a hug or a kiss, all he does is jam his hands into his pockets and stare at the floor again.

_C'mon Cato, what's gotten into you? _

Unable to bear the silence or his evasive demeanor, I stand and slap him hard across his face.

"God, I missed you," he gasps, the color returning to his face.

My knuckles curl into a fist, which slams right into his face, sending him toppling backwards from the chair.

"Still miss me?" I growl, raising my fist for another shot.

"I missed you every second since you left," he says, grinning from ear to ear.

My fingers bunch around his hair and I unleash a flurry of punches into his face. After unloading a dozen more punches, I hitch my dress up and reach for a knife.

"Alright!" Cato exclaims, throwing up his hands in surrender, "We'll talk."

He rises to his feet slowly and wipes the blood from his nose. Despite wearing the tallest heels Enobaria had to offer, Cato still towers over me like a giant.

"How've you been?" he asks, before noticing the scar on my shoulder from Plutarch's hit, "Oh no, you're hurt."

Cato pulls my arm towards him for a closer look and I yank it away.

"That wasn't from the Games was it?" he asks.

"No," I scowl, crossing my arms, "it's from keeping you alive."

Cato's face falls, "Keeping me alive? What do you mean? President Snow –" he pauses, allowing the implication of my words to sink into his mind. I furrow my brows and stare at him.

"Snow forced you?" he asks, his voice rising in fury.

The thought of deceiving him crosses my mind. I flash him the most hurtful look my eyes can conjure, before turning and walking towards the door.

"Clove!" he yells, grabbing my arm and pulling me to face him, "Snow promised me he'd leave you alone!"

"Well I guess that makes him a fucking liar doesn't it?" I shout, "And that makes you a dumbass for believing him and letting him turn you into a fucking whore!"

"I did it to protect you!" he shouts back, "you have no id-"

"I didn't need your fucking protection!" I yell, bunching my hands around the lapels of his suit, "Don't you get it, Cato? I'd rather die than watch you go through this!"

I shove him away and start for the door, hoping he stops me.

"Stop!" he hollers, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me against him, "You're not going back! I'm not going to stand by and watch you sell yourself for me!"

"Get the fuck off me!" I yell, breaking free from his grasp and slapping him hard across the face.

I lose my balance in the heels and fall backwards, pulling Cato down with me. He lands on top of me and pins me down with his massive arms.

"I'm not letting you fuck another person," he growls, breathing hard against my face, "_you belong to me_."

For a moment I struggle against his weight, but I soon realize it's useless. Not with the touch of his hands turning my body limp and the knowledge that _I've waited way too long for this_. The tension in the air is electric as we breathe hard against one another – the memories of our nights on the Victory Tour swimming back to us. He grazes his lips against mine, but when I tilt my head up to close the tantalizingly minute distance between us, he draws back.

"_We belong to each other,"_ I whisper against his lips, snaking my fingers around his neck and tugging him back against me. Cato crashes his lips into mine, and for a moment I panic at the suffocating feeling of his kiss. But the familiarity of his touch returns, and I give myself over to the feelings he has stirred up within me: the intoxicating scent of his neck, the comfort of his embrace, the safety of his body pressed against mine. I don't even stop him when his hands begin wandering up my legs, skipping past my knives and seeking out the places on me meant for love, not war.

He breaks his lips away from mine to remove his blazer and I jam a fist into his ribcage, throwing him off my body and straddling him. Cato responds by picking me up like a stuffed animal and sweeping away the plates before slamming me onto the table. I barely recover from the force of the impact to feel him crushing his body on top of mine again.

"No!" I gasp, too late to prevent him from tearing off my underwear. Suspended from the floor, my heels hang from my toes before clattering onto the carpet. In between the sounds of our frantic breathing and plates shattering on the floor, I feel him running a hand up the side of my dress; a smile spreads across his face when he feels up my breasts and realizes I'm not wearing a bra.

"Stop it, Cato," I gasp into his ears as he gropes my breasts, "fuck, you're hurting me."

The hunger in his touch is unrelenting; he doesn't stop caressing my breasts until I'm writhing in pleasure and begging him not to stop. Cato crushes his lips into the side of my neck and presses himself between my legs. I can feel him now; a rock hard lump in his pants, and my breath begins to come in spurts as he rubs himself up against me.

"You're…you're...hard," I whisper into his hair, "I didn't even do anything to you."

"No one turns me on the way you do, Clove," he mutters against my neck, "I have to take drugs to get this hard with other women."

"Liar," I hiss. But the contentment has already settled into my heart, and it leaves me smiling inside with glee. I get so carried away at the thought that I don't even hear him unzipping his pants.

My eyes widen at the feeling of his cock touching my entrance, and I clutch hard at the tablecloth as he pushes himself into me, uttering a feral moan at the feeling. I open my eyes to the sight of Cato looking back at me in puzzlement.

"You're the fucking liar," he whispers into my ear, "there's no way you could've been letting other guys fuck you and still be _so fucking tight_."

"I didn't say I did, you just assumed," I hiss, trying my best not to show my pain.

"So, what did Snow make you –" he asks, before being cut off by the touch of steel to his neck.

"That's what I've been doing to keep you alive," I answer, pressing my knife into his throat.

"You're the assassin?" he gasps, face whitening in fear as the reality hits him, "how about- "

I slap him hard across the face with my free hand and he recoils from me in pain.

"How about you shut your cock-sucking mouth and fuck me?" I hiss, tearing a gash in his shirt as I yank him towards me.

With my knife still held across his throat, he kisses me – softly this time. Despite tasting only blood on his lips, I can't help thinking of all the innocent blood I've shed getting to this moment, and _how it was all worth it. _Soon my knife joins the mess of broken plates on the table, as I hold his face in my hands and savor the mesmerizing touch of his lips to mine.

He pulls his hips back and thrusts hard into me; I had never felt it this way before – Cato had always been slow and gentle with me. But there's nothing slow or gentle with the way he's fucking me this time. With every thrust it feels like he's telling me a story of his pain, and with every rise of my hips to meet his, it feels like I'm making him whole again.

"For a guy who fucks professionally, you're pretty bad at this," I taunt him.

All the air in my lungs gets wrenched out as he picks me up and jams me up against the wall. He fits himself to me again and thrusts hard, hissing, "What the _fuck_ did you just say?"

"I...said…I said…," I stutter, trying to find the correct words in my mind as pleasure of him inside me overwhelms my brain, "I said – fuck!"

With my feet dangling helplessly by his sides, I wrap my legs around his waist for support. There's no going back now, every single person in the restaurant must've heard our commotion – followed by the frantic sounds of our fucking. I moan against his ear with each time he pushes into me, and it feels like an explosion of pleasure every time he drops me against himself at the end of each stroke.

"Oh god, Clove," he groans beneath my jaw, "it's been way too long."

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and lean into him as he fucks me up against the wall, trying to find the perfect angle where he'd rub up against my sweet spot. Eventually, I find it, and amidst the frenzied exhortations and whimpered expletives, I feel a white-hot orb of pleasure building in my pelvis.

"Fuck, Cato," I moan, digging my nails into his shirt

My hands bunch up around the fabric of his shirt until it rips between my fingers. I grit my teeth and hold my breath as the ball of pleasure inside me melts into a tidal wave that touches every nerve across my body with bliss. I exhale deeply, and the pleasure rushes across my body again, making me twitch in fulfilment. I open my eyes to the sight of Cato looking back at me with a smile on his face.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" I gasp, breathing hard against his face.

"You look fucking hot when you come," he says, "all the other-"

I cut him off by butting my head into his face.

"I don't want to hear another goddamned word," I scowl.

Cato yanks me away from the wall and I clutch onto him tightly, thinking that he's going to slam me onto the floor. But as I shut my eyes and brace myself for the impact – all I feel is the plush velvet rug softly greeting my bruised back. He presses his lips to mine and pushes himself into me again; slower this time. If our frantic sex from earlier was reminiscent of long-lost lovers who found each other; the gentle rocking of our bodies against one another now is akin to a promise that we'll never let each other go again.

Cato cries out my name as he comes, pressing his lips hard into my hair and clutching at the seams of my dress. My fingers trail along the bruises I've laid on his face, and he kisses me. I can taste something else on his lips besides blood and sweat; something that can only be deciphered from the softness of his touch. _Gratitude. _

_I bet all the other women push you away right after you come_.

Cato presses his face to my chest, and he slips his hands around my waist.

"You can cry if you want to," I murmur into his hair, "I won't say a thing."

I wait for another one of his usual snarky replies, but there's nothing - just the trembling of his lips against my chest.

"I'm sorry," he snivels, "I'm so sorry for keeping it from you."

I run my fingers through his hair, sticking to my promise of keeping quiet. I'd never expect that I'd one day see Cato with tears in his eyes, but after all we've gone through – it's hard to expect anything otherwise.

"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he whispers.

I clutch his head to my chest, searching for the words that could express my feelings. There're a million things on my mind I want to tell him: _I'm sorry too. You're not alone. We protected each other the best we could. I'd rather die in your arms than live one more second apart from you. _

"We only have ourselves to forgive," I whisper back, and his body goes limp with relief.

Cato helps me to my feet, and we take a moment to survey the damage we've caused. The room is wrecked now – on the table lies a mess of blood and broken glassware, and a large crack has formed across the center where Cato had slammed me.

"They wouldn't have heard us through the walls," Cato comments, running his fingers over the wallpaper, "but I've no idea how we're going to answer for this."

I reach into my purse and toss a wad of cash onto the table.

"This should settle it," I say, tugging at his arm, "let's get out of here before someone calls the Peacekeepers."

"Where're you going?" he asks.

"I'm starting a war," I reply, "you joining me or what?"


End file.
